


[tomorrow never knows]

by ahab2692



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Depression, Dreams, Drunkenness, Jackson is a werewolf, Lots and lots of ambiguity, M/M, Not compliant with Season 2, Recreational Drug Use, Scent Marking, Slow Build, Surrealism, Therapy, seriously though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 41,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a violent accident, Stiles and Jackson are forced to hide out together at a summer cabin at Lake Tahoe. They discover themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nightingale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a reference to the song of the same name by The Beatles.
> 
> This first chapter is mostly exposition. The serious Jackson/Stiles stuff happens in the next chapters.

**I.**

A screaming splits the the sky.

Stiles wakens, roused from restless slumber by the tremor in the sound, by the waver in its piercing bellow. He arches into the coolness of the bedsheets, peeling away from the static cling and squinting through the velveteen darkness, blinking out the sands of sleep as he strains to see through the cracks in the blinds. He steps out of bed, the springs of the mattress creaking at the loss of his weight. His shoes hit the floor. Still dressed; not bothered to strip down after the events of the evening.

His clothes mold to the shape his skin, sticky and overheated. His body is a furnace, hands clammy as they come up to run callused fingertips in circles over the twitching flesh of his eyelids, brushing away the nighttime residue as he yawns and stretches out his weary limbs.

The screaming persists, now muted into the quieter thrum of an extended whimper, reverberating in the distant woodland grove. Stiles pulls the cord, lifts the blinds. He opens the window, shoulders tensing at the gust of chill. He peers out through the opening, watching as a flock of birds takes flight from the canopy of the forest. They swoop in close at first, dipping down in a V over the network of blacktop suburban streets, wings flapping in the dim illumination of the streetlamp glow, and then they’re off, beating at the night sky like bats out of hell, vanishing pinpricks of darkness as they flee towards the horizon.

Leaves rustle in the fluttering, and the tree-line seems to breathe, pulsing in and out with the force of the wind. The sound is finished now, only an echo left to indicate it ever existed at all. In his sleep-deprived delirium, Stiles notes detachedly that the noise came from the direction of the old Hale house.

He retreats into the semi-warmth of his bedroom, sliding the windowpane shut, fingerprints smudging the glass with the downward tug. He moves away, pulling the blinds closed, shrouding himself in darkness once more. A ray of light beams through the cracks and shines down on the edge of the bed. It invites, and Stiles sits down roughly, elbows tamped down hard on his knees, chin cradled in his palms.

He blinks.

Tonight, he killed a man.

Well. He _helped_. It was Derek who delivered the blow. Derek who ripped out his uncle’s throat and ended the Hale bloodline. But Stiles helped.

He rubs at his forehead, sucks in his lower lip. Thinks. He decides that the prospect of sleep is but a wistful fantasy now, and he slips out into the hall, tip-toeing down the stairs to the kitchen.

The table-side lamp is switched on, the room occupied. Apparently he’s not the only one whose sleep is troubled.

“Hey, Dad,” he says. Sits down, pulling out the wooden chair, wincing at the creak as the metal knobs scrape against the floor.

The sheriff nods in acknowledgment, hands folded in front of his face, forefingers tapping against his lips ponderously. “Son,” he murmurs.

Stiles’ shoes squeak on the tile, laces come undone. He leans heavily against the backrest. “Can’t sleep?”

The sheriff shakes his head. “You?”

“No.” He chews on his lip. There’s an empty glass on the table, droplets gleaming in the lamplight, and Stiles knows that if he were to go to the liquor cabinet and examine the bourbon, he would find the bottle to be noticeably emptier than it was this morning. “Are you okay?”

The sheriff huffs a short laugh, mouth quirking upward. He spares a moment to smile affectionately at his son before the glimmer of good humor is gone, replaced by weariness. “This used to be a nice town,” he says vaguely, handling the glass, frowning at it slightly, as if judging it for not being full. “Or maybe not. I might be idealizing it.” He sighs. “But that’s the way I remember it, at least. When your mother...”

He trails off, voice cracking, and Stiles swallows back the lump in his throat. His foot edges forward to nudge his father’s. “Yeah?” he prompts.

“It was nice,” the answer comes after a moment. “When your mother and I first moved here. It was a sociable sort of town.” He shifts in his seat, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “There were always cases, of course. No such thing as a city without crime.” He grimaces. “But it was never too much to handle. Nothing like this mess.”

Stiles lets out a soft breath. Stands. He places a hand on his father’s shoulder, bends down to rest his forehead against the man’s hair. 

The sheriff reaches up, squeezes his hand. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “My mind wanders sometimes.” He wraps an arm around his son’s waist, hugs him briefly. “I’m fine, buddy. Just need some time to think.”

Stiles nods, forces a smile. “I’m gonna go out on the back porch,” he says. “Clear my head.”

Stepping outside, the night air brings a chill to his lungs as he breathes in deep. It’s thick, heavy, rather than refreshing, and Stiles feels caught between the exhaustion threatening to give way to sleep and the alert wariness that takes hold without warning.

He stands out there for some time, alone on the deck with his thoughts. He shifts his weight back and forth between his feet, laces tugging as they ride up beneath his shoes.

Eventually, the kitchen lights turn off and the house goes totally dark. But Stiles doesn’t move just yet.

He stays out in the cold. Watches the sky and listens for the sound.

 

**II.**

His mother died on a Friday.

He remembers that because he was in class when his name was announced - the principal’s voice coming in somber and crackly over the loudspeaker - and he still remembers vaguely wondering when he was going to have time to finish his history project as he walked down the hall to hear the news he’d been dreading all day.

The sheriff was waiting for him in the front office, eyes shining, hands trembling in his lap as he sat in the cushioned chair in the waiting area. It was clear he didn’t know how to do this, and so Stiles didn’t make him say the words. Just pushed down the stabbing loss in his chest and buried his face against his father’s chest, hugging him tight as if afraid he’d lose him too if he ever let go.

He doesn’t think about her as much these days. Not anymore. It used to be impossible _not_ to; she was always there, her memory lingering in the back of his mind every hour of the day. Even when he was with Scott, no matter how occupied he kept himself, her presence was absolute, inescapable. He’d think of her smile, and the way she tied up her hair when she cut up fruit in the kitchen, and how she loved to take him with her on long walks down the highway along the perimeter of the woods and listen to him tell her about his day. And he wondered whether or not the pain would ever become easier to bear.

It’s easier now.

Her memory still remains, though; in tokens and in stories. The collage of family photos still litters the wall of the downstairs hallway leading to the master bedroom. 

The dark green picture frame - a delicate ivory piece given as a wedding gift - is notably empty. Stiles noticed this for the first time about a month or so after the funeral. It was a picture of his mother in her college years: sitting in the shade of an old oak tree, smiling broadly at the photographer, her hair twisted in strands around her shoulders.

Stiles never asks, and his father never tells. But sometimes, late at night when Stiles slips in after an evening at Scott’s house, the soft glow of light from the sheriff’s room still emanates from underneath the door. And can visualize it with ease: his father sitting alone in bed, glass of alcohol clutched in one hand, the picture held tight in the other. Just staring at it, longing for something he can never have again.

But Stiles never asks. Some things are meant to be private.

Even between fathers and sons.

 

**III.**

****

“Well, they’re not going to kill me,” Scott tells him as they walk down the length of the road into town.

Stiles raises an eyebrow, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, breath coming out in wisps around his mouth. “That’s a good thing, right?” He nudges Scott’s shoulder. “Why so glum?”

“Mr. Argent doesn’t want me dating Allison.” Scott kicks a pebble on the road, mouth twisted in a rueful grimace. “Like, he’s not going to stop me from seeing her, per se, but he doesn’t like it.”

“Did you really expect any different?” Stiles pulls his hands out and rubs them together, curling his fingers into a cup and blowing heat against his skin. “You’re a werewolf. He’s a werewolf hunter. Kind of a bad mix.”

Scott makes a quiet, frustrated noise. “I know, I know. I just wish it didn’t have to be like this.” His mouth curls back, gums stretched to expose his teeth in an unpleasant snarl. “Why couldn’t Derek let me do it?” he asks. “Even if it didn’t work, I still should have been given the chance to try. So why did he do it?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t have the answers. You’ll have to ask him.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Scott huffs out an amused chuckle. “He’s not exactly the conversational type.” Mimicking Stiles’ gesture, he rubs his hands together, cupping them up near his face. “Anyway. What’s done is done, I guess. But if he tries to make me be a part of his ‘pack’ or whatever, I’m going to tell him to fuck himself.”

Stiles gives him a look. “Really? You’re going to say that to him?”

Scott pauses. “Alright, maybe not in those words, exactly. But yeah. The basic gist of it.”

“Hmm.” Stiles blinks as the clouds above begin to part, making way for the full brightness of the sun to shine down upon them. “Well, it’s your choice.”

Scott frowns. Stops. He cocks his head to the side, examining Stiles’ expression. “What do you mean by that?”

Stiles shrugs. “Just what I said, dude. It’s your life. Your call.”

“Yeah, but...the way you said it, I mean.” Scott bites his lip, folds his arms. “Do you think I should say _yes_ if he asks? You think I should join his pack?”

Stiles opens his mouth, hesitates. Snaps it shut and thinks for a moment. “I think it’s a good idea to try and avoid any more violence.”

Scott considers that for a minute or so, then nods meaninglessly, neither in confirmation or denial, and the pair resume their aimless walk. The conversation drifts back to Allison, and Stiles stops paying attention, focusing instead on the chirping of the birds in the trees.

 

**IV.**

The winters in Beacon Hills generally aren’t as harsh as in other places, but the wind is still bitter and the air frosty, and Stiles draws his jacket tightly around himself as he wanders down the nature trail.

One would think he’d have learned his lesson by now, and that he would have ceased these solo outings into the woods; especially knowing what’s out there. And yet he continues to venture into the wilderness on many an afternoon, not for any reason in particular. Just to explore, drift. To take time and ponder it all. 

There’s plenty to think about.

He tenses slightly at the cracking of twigs over the slope of the leaf-strewn hill, and he turns his gaze to peer warily at the cluster of trees up the way.

For a moment, there is no other sound, and he thinks that perhaps it was just his imagination. And then he sees it:

Jackson, coming up over the side of the expanse, legs working furiously as his shoes tear up the earth beneath his feet. His neck is taught, strained from exertion, but his eyes are alive and alert, bright with manic glee. His white t-shirt sticks to his skin, pulling tight across his chest. Sweat trails down from his sideburns, and he pants in the afternoon air.

He pauses at the top of the hill, squatting down to rest, panting heavily, mouth curled up in a quiet smile, as if he’s laughing at some private joke. Seeing Stiles, the smile widens and his eyes flash yellow.

_Yellow_.

Stiles takes a step back, moving on instinct, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. But Jackson doesn’t attack, doesn’t even step forward. Just stands up to full height, knees popping as he lifts out of his crouch, and gazes down the slope with his trademark smirk firmly in place.

“That’s right, Stilinski,” he drawls, voice practically dripping with self-satisfaction. “McCall’s not the only golden boy around here anymore. You ought to let him know.”

Stiles stares for a minute, heart hammering in his chest. He chokes out a half-laugh. “What the hell did you do, Jackson?” he murmurs.

He says it quietly, but - of course - Jackson hears, grin stretching wider still. “Had a little talk with Hale. I thought he owed me for helping to save his ass.” His eyes flicker down, examining himself with a detached sort of admiration. “I guess he agreed.”

“What, you think this is _cool_?” Stiles asks, raising his voice as a spark of anger ignites within. Jackson matches his gaze evenly, totally unfazed.

“You don’t?”

Stiles pauses, tongue darting out to wet his lips before replying. “I do. I _did._ ” He scratches the back of his head. Grudgingly, “I do,” he admits. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s not all fun and games. I mean, Jesus, you _know_ that already. You were _there_ , you _saw_.”

Jackson purses his lips, eyebrows knitting together in the middle; an annoyed expression he seems to reserve especially for Stiles. “I saw,” he says blandly.

“Yeah?” Stiles makes a meaningless gesture, arms flapping at his sides. “Did you understand what you saw? Do you get that people have _died_ because of this? You’re putting yourself in danger because...what? So you can be the best at lacrosse?”

The low grumble burbling in Jackson’s chest erupts into a full-blown snarl, and Stiles starts at the sound, jumping back. “Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot,” Jackson says dangerously, eyes burning hot and bright in their sockets. He takes a few step forward, stopping when Stiles cringes. “This isn’t about fucking sports.”

Going for broke, Stiles quips, “Then what?”

Jackson’s eyes cease their menacing glimmering, reverting back to normal color. He blinks.

Heartbeat slowing to regular pace, Stiles relaxes. “Then what?” he asks again, gently.

Jackson flashes him a look of contempt, but it’s half-hearted, without any heat behind it. He turns on his heel and runs off down the path.

 

**V.**

He bangs on the front door with a closed fist, the wood rattling against his knuckles with the force of each blow. This is a stupid idea, he knows, but his blood is boiling and all he can see is red.

Derek opens up after five minutes of the relentless pounding, wearing an expression that, under any other circumstances, would have Stiles pissing himself with fear. “What?” he snarls.

Not cowed, Stiles matches his glare, chest heaving from the run over. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he snaps. “Why did you turn Jackson?”

Growling, Derek reaches out and seizes him by the front of his shirt, dragging him in and slamming the door shut. “Not outside, idiot.”

Stiles ignores him, marching into the living room and wheeling around to face him head on, feet planted firmly, arms folded across his torso. “Why?” he repeats. “ _Why?_ ”

Derek cocks his head, expression clearly reading _I don’t have to explain shit to you, kid_ , but he says, “He asked me to.”

“You-” Stiles’ arms flap uselessly at his side, hands coming up in a mock-strangling motion. He clenches them into fists, biting his lip to keep calm. “You can’t just...look, you _can’t_ go around turning people - turning _teenagers_ into werewolves! Okay?” Derek’s eyes blaze red, and it occurs to Stiles that the older boy might _actually_ hurt him, so he quickly adds, “I’m not, uh, commanding you or anything like that. I’m just saying that-”

He cuts off with a squeak as Derek grabs him by the throat, slamming him up against the wall. “He will submit to me,” the werewolf grits out slowly, fingers gripping tight. “He will recognize me as his Alpha, and he will not cause any problems.”

“Dude,” Stiles chokes out, trying to pry Derek’s hand away. “Enough with the abuse.”

Derek lets go, stepping back as Stiles regains his breath. “Do not insinuate that I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says coldly. “I know a great deal more about this way of life than you do, so don’t pretend like I’m the bad guy.”

Stiles rubs his neck ruefully, scowling up at him. “All of the issues you and Scott have,” he says, “Well. It’s going to be ten times worse with Jackson. Believe me, there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that he’s going to obey anything you say.”

Eyes flashing again, Derek lips curl back in sneer. “We’ll see,” he deadpans.

“I’m not trying to get in the middle of your business,” Stiles says placatingly, shivering at Derek’s deadly soft tone, “Trust me, I’ve had enough werewolf fun to last me a lifetime. The last thing I want is to get more involved.” Tentatively, he steps forward, forcing Derek to meet his gaze. “I just want to make sure nobody else gets hurt.”

Derek contemplates that, and he almost looks thoughtful for second, then he jerks his head in the direction of the door. “No one will,” he says, confident and self-assured. “Now get out.”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but Derek glares him down. So he leaves, door slamming shut behind him.

The sun has started to set in the distant horizon. Stiles trudges back through the woods to his car, watching the sky come alive with color. 

When he gets back to the road, it is dark once more.

 

**VI.**

“Stiles.” 

Danny’s fingers appear in the periphery of his vision, snapping together close to his ear. He jerks out of his thoughts, turning to look at the other boy. “Hmm?”

“You were dozing off.” Danny’s eyebrow is arched, cautiously questioning. “You alright?”

Stiles nods absently. “Yeah, yeah. Just thinking.”

Apparently satisfied, Danny returns to his laptop. “Okay, well focus, please. This is our last project for the semester, and I want to try to finish out with an A average.”

Stiles clears his throat, shifting the papers on his lap, squinting at the top line. “Right. I got sodium bicarbonate for number three.”

Danny frowns at his computer screen, shaking his head. “Yeah, so did I, but I’m not sure I wrote down the formula correctly. How did you get from...”

A ringing begins to resound in Stiles’ ears, and Danny’s voice fades away. He finds himself drifting away again, staring out the window of his bedroom at the forest. It’s nearly dark, and the crickets are just starting up their chirping chorus. He blinks slowly, and a pair of glowing yellow orbs flash before his mind’s eye. Imprinted on the brain, seared into memory.

“How is Jackson doing?” he says abruptly, interrupting Danny’s series of questions.

Danny stops, looking up from his computer, expression torn between confusion and wariness. “He’s, uh. I...what?”

Stiles wheels around in his spinning chair, folding his hand in his lap. He marshals his face into wide-eyed sincerity. “Jackson,” he repeats. “How is he doing?”

“That’s...he’s...” Danny motions hopelessly at the workload on the desk. “Can we...?” Stiles’ keeps his face neutral, and he can practically pinpoint the exact moment when Danny gives up. “He’s fine, I guess. Although I’m not entirely sure what this has to do-”

“Not acting funny?” Stiles coaxes, propping his chin up with the palm of his hand, wheeling back and forth in his chair. “Doing alright?”

Danny stares. “Yes. He’s _fine_.” 

Stiles nods, letting out a quiet breath. “Yeah, okay.”

Danny looks at him weirdly, annoyance giving way to concern. “Hey,” he says, putting a hand on the armrest of Stiles’ chair. “Are... _you_ okay?”

Stiles blinks at him, then forces a smile, hoping it seems genuine. “Yeah, I’m all good. Just a little tired.”

They return to the homework after that, and they don’t bring the subject up again.

But when Stiles tries to go to sleep later that night, his mind is restless with visions of glowing yellow eyes.

 

**VII.**

Exactly two weeks after Peter Hale’s death, Stiles summons up the courage to go straight to the source and have a one-on-one with Chris Argent.

His relationship with Allison has been primarily defined by their mutual connection to Scott, but he can’t help but feel a twinge of relief when he sees her sitting out on the side porch swing as he approaches the house. The way he sees it, her father won’t be so likely to lose his temper with her nearby.

“Hey,” he calls out in greeting, and Allison looks up from her book expectantly, smiling as her gaze falls upon him.

“Hey, yourself,” she says, closing the book and setting it down beside her on the swing. “What’s up?”

He shrugs. “Oh, nothing much.” He glances at the house. “Your dad home?”

Her eyebrows shoot up, and Stiles half expects her to comment, but instead she just nods, gesturing towards the back yard. “Watering the plants.”

Stiles smiles indulgently, giving a little wave. “Okay, thanks. I’ll see you at school?”

“Yep,” she replies, staring after him for a moment before returning to her book.

Mr. Argent is standing in the back next to a rose bush, hand curled around the nozzle of a garden hose. The flow of water pumps out in gentle bursts, droplets coming down delicately on the red petals, dripping off the leaves into the soil beneath. He turns at the sound of Stiles’ footsteps, surprise registering in his expression briefly before his mouth twists into that creepy, faux-neighborly smile he’s so fond of wearing.

“Stiles,” he greets, tone betraying nothing of his thoughts.

“Mr. Argent,” Stiles responds, dipping his head in acknowledgment. Stopping a few feet away, he shoves his hands into his pockets, leaning awkwardly to his left side. “Could we talk?” His heel digs into the grass and he clenches the muscles in his leg tight, willing himself not to tap his foot. “It’ll only take a minute.”

Mr. Argent’s smile never falters. He releases the nozzle, cutting off the flow of water. “I’ve already explained my conditions to your friend,” he says with carefully practiced politeness. “I won’t object to him dating Allison so long as he follows my rules. I don’t think I’ve been unfair.”

“No, no,” Stiles interrupts. “That’s not what this is about.” He pauses, and the hunter looks at him skeptically. “Well, it is, sort of. But not really.” He takes a deep breath. “Look, Mr. Argent-”

“Chris,” Mr. Argent cuts in, fake smile and bland tone still firmly in place. Stiles rocks back on his feet uncomfortably.

“Mr. Argent. I don’t want there to be any more...uh, tension between us.”

Mr. Argent strokes his chin. “Tension?” he says mildly. “I wasn’t aware you and I-”

“Us, collectively speaking,” Stiles rewords, trying to convey his point with hand gestures. “Me, yes. And Scott, definitely. And Derek and Jackson.”

Mr. Argent looks at him sharply. “Jackson?” he asks, his voice reminding of Derek’s deadly growl.

Stiles gulps. “Uh. Yes. He’s...umm. He’s a werewolf now.” He holds up his palms, cutting off the tirade he’s sure is coming. “He asked for the bite,” he says quickly. “It was totally his decision, no one forced it on him. And while you might think it’s a stupid decision - and, to be honest, I actually agree with you there - it’s still not worth getting all...upset about.” He swallows. “Don’t you think?” he adds anxiously.

Mr. Argent glares. “That was very stupid of him,” he says, ignoring the question.

“Yes, and like I said, I _agree_ with you. But please, _please_ , no more violence.” Stiles sighs heavily, dropping his hands down by his sides. “No more violence.”

The anger in Mr. Argent’s eyes evaporates, replaced by surprise. “We’re not monsters, you know,” he says, a hint of amusement creeping in at the edges. “My sister was a loose cannon. She didn’t follow the code.” He nods absently, more to himself than to Stiles. “I’m not going to hurt Scott. I don’t approve of him, but I realize that he’s not a threat.” He pauses. “For now.” He lifts a finger, jabbing it in Stiles’ chest. “No violence on your end, no violence on ours,” he says. “That’s the deal. As long as the people of this town go unharmed, we won’t have a problem.”

Stiles bites his tongue. “Okay...well, forgive me if I’m a little unsure about taking your word for it. You _have_ tried to kill my best friend once before.” He brushes the hunter’s hand aside. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Mr. Argent smiles, and this time it’s genuine and nasty. “You don’t,” he replies unhelpfully. “You’re going to have to take a leap of faith.”

Stiles knows that’s not good enough, wants to object. But it’s the best he’s going to get, so instead he just nods. “Alright,” he says slowly. “So...truce?” 

He raises his hand, and Mr. Argent takes it in his own, giving it a single shake. “Truce,” he agrees. Stiles turns to leave, and the hunter adds, “Why so concerned about Jackson? I wasn’t under the impression that you two are that close.”

Stiles gait doesn’t falter. He doesn’t even look over his shoulder. “We’re not,” he calls.

 

**VIII.**

****

The semester fizzles out without incident. It’s actually rather anticlimactic. Not that Stiles is disappointed; boredom beats life-threatening peril any day of the week.

His grades are solid, nothing spectacular. His father looks over his report card with a half-smile and a quiet chuckle, and that’s the extent of their discussion on the subject.

Lydia is awake now, alive and well. Her memory of formal night is fuzzy; clear enough that she’s noticeably friendlier to Stiles than ever before, but not so clear that she’s been asking around about mysterious men with glowing eyes and jagged teeth. She seems to have lucked out in that regard.

The weeks leading up to Christmas are eerily calm. No visits from Derek. No run-ins with the Argents. Just Stiles and the sheriff, and their empty little house full of memories.

They spend Christmas Eve watching old movies and swapping stories. It’s the first time in what feels like years that they’ve had the chance to really sit down and just _talk_. And it’s good.

Right up until the point when the TV screen goes dark with static at the end of the tape, and the sky outside grows black in the cold of the evening. Then the conversation begins to dull, and the weight of their aloneness starts to sink in. Stiles finds himself staring at the empty armchair next to the couch, and when he glances to his father, he doesn’t miss the vein pulsing in the man’s temple, eyes glassy with sudden wetness.

The sheriff coughs awkwardly, standing up with a forced smile. “I think I’m going to hit the sack, kiddo,” he says. “Don’t stay up too late.” Stiles listens to his footsteps fading down the hall, hears the door to the master bedroom click shut. He flips through channels for a while, trying and failing to focus his mind on any of the inane late night programs. Giving up after some time, he rises up and flicks off the light. The glow of the lamp shines underneath the door of his father’s room, and he swallows hard, his eye drawn immediately to the empty ivory picture frame on the wall.

Sleep no longer a feasible option, he slips out and drives to the nearest gas station to pick up some eggnog. The streetlights burn in the winter chill, and he blinks away exhaustion as enters into the fluorescent lit room.

The clerk is half-asleep, her cheek resting against the register, mouth hanging open. The store is empty, apart from one other customer. Jackson.

The boy looks up at the intonation of the door chime, and he meets Stiles’ gaze levelly.

“Stilinski,” he says.

“Jackson,” Stiles replies tiredly, not in the mood for an argument.

Jackson doesn’t seem to be looking for one anyway, though, as his mouth twists into an almost warm smile and he says, “Good holiday?”

Stiles shrugs, politely sliding by him to get to the glass door of the cheap refrigerator, quickly selecting a carton. “Not bad. You?”

“About to get better.” He holds up a case of beer, wiggling his eyebrows mischievously. He reaches his other hand into his pocket, whipping out his wallet to display his fake I.D.

Stiles hums disinterestedly. “Looks real,” he says, brief and bland.

Seemingly oblivious to his tone, Jackson’s smile doesn’t fade. “Wanna help me destroy this?” he says lowly, shaking the case tantalizingly. “My parents are gone on business, so no interruptions.”

“Hmm.” Stiles shifts slightly, rubbing his elbow. “No thanks.” He slides past to the register, slapping on the counter to wake the clerk. As she rings him up, Stiles catches Jackson’s expression in the convex mirror in the upper right corner. It’s not quiet readable, somewhat distant. He’d almost go so far as to classify it as hurt. 

But that wouldn’t make any sense.

He mumbles thanks to the sleepy clerk and steps out into the parking lot, door swinging closed behind him.

He doesn’t look back, but he can feel the weight of Jackson’s gaze on the back of his neck. And it makes his hairs stand on end.

  


**IX.**

For the first time in his life, he’s invited to a New Years Eve party. By Lydia, of all people.

It’s not his scene: a tipsy conglomerate of kids he doesn’t know all packed together in a tight press of merry drunkenness in the foyer of the Martin house. The booze is cheap - and Stiles doesn’t even care much for beer in the first place - and the music is too loud, and he feels uncomfortable and very much out of place. But Lydia keeps close to his side and laughs at his lame jokes, and when everyone gathers around the tube to watch the ball drop in Times Square, she leans up on her toes and kisses him at the end of the countdown.

It’s a moment he’s dreamed about for years, and of course there’s no way the real thing could ever measure up to the perfection of his fantasies, but still he can tell that there’s something off in the feeling. Something about the angle or the force behind it, or the way her tongue explores his mouth like it’s some sort of foreign world, seeking forth with trepidation rather than with vigor or alcohol-fueled arousal.

And when she pulls away as the cheers subside, fountains of confetti raining down on the people on the TV screen, Stiles sees the look in her eyes, sees the doubt, and understands straight away.

“It’s okay,” he tells her, swallowing back the lump in his throat, forcing a small smile to match her own. “You don’t have to try and like me just because I like you.”

Her lips twitch, the beginnings of a grimace, and he knows he’s hit the nail on the head. “You’re a really great guy,” she says, somehow making it sincere and frustrated and apologetic all at the same time.

He nods, mouth pulling back into a real smile now. “Yeah, well. Thanks. I’m glad you think so.” He shakes his head slowly. “But you don’t have feelings for me. Not like that.”

She looks uncomfortable, guilty even, and it’s so out of character for her, so different from the supreme confidence that usually defines her, and Stiles reaches out to tug on the sleeve of her arm. A friendly gesture, a quiet reassurance. “I want to, though,” Lydia whispers, blunt and honest.

Stiles shrugs, biting the inside of his cheek. “You like who you like,” he says, hoping to come off as nonchalant.

Lydia stares at her feet for a minute, only glancing up at the loud sound of a pair of drunk girls messing around with pans in the kitchen. She makes a half movement as if to leave, pauses, and squeezes Stiles’ hand once. “Friends?” she asks.

And it’s a genuine request, not a half-hearted settlement for something less, so Stiles can’t even bring himself to say anything other than, “Of course.”

And as she makes her way through the crowd to the other side, fiery hair vanishing into the sea of color, Stiles’ fantasy of her begins to crumble to dust. The ideal is gone, and the girl remains.

“Good night, folks!” the news anchor is saying. “I hope you’re ready for a brand new year! I sure am!”

 

**X.**

The winter thaw gives way to spring, and with it comes the new semester.

Classes vary in toughness, and the routine kicks in straight away, like clockwork. Scott and Allison are still together, and happy, as far as Stiles can tell. There’s an undercurrent of tension whenever the subject of her parents comes up, just enough awkwardness to reaffirm Mr. Argent’s adamant disapproval of the relationship. But there’s no fighting. No violence.

Stiles only sees Derek on three or four separate occasions in the time between January and March, all in public, never allowing for any private conversation. Just a meeting of eyes across the supermarket or the gas station or the parking lot at the pharmacy. Just a head nod, a silent acknowledgment of _Yes, I still know that you exist_. 

There’s a part of Stiles that feels left out of the loop, frustrated that he doesn’t know what’s going on the werewolf front. But in truth, he doesn’t really want to know.

He and Derek run into each other on a Wednesday afternoon at the movie theater. Stiles is just coming out through the double doors, tossing his empty bag of popcorn in the nearest trash can when he catches Derek’s eye. There’s a purple bruising around the skin there, fading but still ugly, and when Derek catches him looking, his lips curl at the edges and he glares defiantly, daring Stiles to say anything about it.

Never one to disappoint, Stiles quips, “Jackson’s submitting well, I take it?”

He’s not sure why he says it, not sure if that’s even the real reason for the bruise. But the moment the words slip out, the moment he sees Derek’s reaction, he knows he’s guessed right.

Derek stares at him for a moment, as if silently making up his mind whether or not to rip out his throat, then just grunts and pushes past.

And that’s the extent of their interaction for that month.

 

**XI.**

****

The white concrete walls are faded with dark dust, worn down by time. The table-side lamps glow is supposed to be soothing, but Stiles finds it aggravating, sleep-inducing. He sits on the little blue couch with his hands folded in his lap, foot tapping with nervous energy as the lady flips through the papers, her green pen rapping lightly on the edges of the clipboard. 

Brenda, her name tag reads. No surname, no “Dr.” Just Brenda. Like that by itself is supposed to endear her to him.

“I don’t really feel like talking,” he tells her, and she looks up with arched eyebrow, expression indiscernible. “Just so you know.”

She contemplates him for a moment, nods, and returns to the papers, eyes scanning each line with studious focus. “That’s okay,” she says calmly. “I get that a lot.”

Stiles shifts on the couch, springs creaking beneath him under the firm cushions. “It was my dad’s idea,” he adds, feeling the bizarre need to explain his presence. “He thought I should talk to someone.” A pause. “Yeah. His idea, not mine."

The psychiatrist - _Brenda_ , Stiles’ mind supplies - nods again, not bothering to look up this time. “That’s okay, too. I’ve worked with your father several times before, and we’ve had varying levels of success with each patient.”

That’s news to Stiles. “You’ve worked with my dad?” he asks, taken aback.

She looks up, sparing him a brief smile before glancing down once more, eyebrows knitting together as she scribbles out something on her notepad. “I specialize in treating troubled young people, and your father specializes in dealing with troubled people in general. Sometimes our interests coincide. He’s recommended patients to me before, and I’ve recommended patients talk to him when it’s necessary to involve the law.” She finishes reading and sets the clipboard down on the table, giving him her full attention. Seeing the look on his face, she adds, “Not to imply that _you_ are troubled. Just that, yes, your father and I have worked together before.”

Stiles leans against the backrest, picking at his fingernails absently. “Uh huh.”

Brenda sits cross-legged, watching him neutrally. Her expression is open, inviting, but not sappy or patronizing. There’s no hint of condescension. “Your father,” she says after a minute of silence, leaning over to squint at the clipboard over the top of her black-rimmed glasses. “He thought you should see me because...” - she flips a page, scans the bottom paragraph - “...because you had a panic attack at school.”

“Passed out,” Stiles corrects, voice coming out harsher than he intended. Softening it, he repeats, “I passed out. It wasn’t a panic attack.”

She shrugs, folds her hands in his lap, mirroring his own posture. “Alright. Could you describe it to me, please?”

He sucks in his lower lip, stops tapping his foot. “I was in class and I started getting lightheaded. I started sweating, and my hands were shaking. And my stomach...I felt nauseous. And then I asked to go to the bathroom, and when I stood up...I passed out.” He shrugs. “And that was it.”

Brenda hums meaninglessly. Stiles glares at the clipboard, certain she’s going to pick it up and start writing. Following the line of his gaze, she just smiles knowingly and uncrosses her legs, sitting upright. She doesn’t grab the clipboard. “Those symptoms sound like a panic attack to me.”

Stiles shakes his head. “It wasn’t,” he insists stubbornly.

“Maybe not,” she acquiesces. “But healthy teenage boys don’t just pass out in the middle of class for no reason.” She tilts her head to the side, studying him. “Was there a test that day? Were you stressed out about homework, or friends?”

“No.”

“Nothing you can think of? It’s a total mystery to you?” It’s not an accusation, but her tone isn’t entirely innocent. She’s looking at him expectantly, probingly.

Stiles looks away. “Like I said, I don’t really feel like talking.”

Brenda leans back in her chair, and she does pick up the clipboard now. “Okay.”

They sit for a few minutes in silence. Stiles listens to the ticking of the clock on the wall. It’s one of those gift shop souvenirs; a tacky red thing with pictures of birds in place of the numbers. Stiles squints at it closely. The nightingale is next up on the hour. He looks back at the psychiatrist, watching as she scribbles on her pad.

“What are you writing?” he asks.

“I’m not,” she says, turns it around to show him. “I’m doodling.”

He blinks. “Doodling?”

“Yes.” She flips it back, shaking the pen out, scratching it against the paper. “Not all of my patients want to talk, and I never force them. If you want to sit quietly for the rest of the session, you are free to do so.” She taps the clipboard. “In the meantime, I’ll keep myself occupied with this sketch of a cardinal.”

Stiles stares, blinks again, then looks away. There’s a photograph on the wall, a blown up picture of a mountain vista at sunset. The stars are just beginning to come out and the sky is alive with color. The words “Peace and Serenity” are printed in the bottom left corner. For some reason, that tickles him, and he lets out a derisive snort. Brenda looks up for a moment, sees what he’s looking at, then looks back down.

“You like birds, I guess,” Stiles says after a few more minutes, gesturing at the notepad, at the clock.

“I do,” she says, eyebrow arched pointedly. _We’re not here to talk about me_ , it says.

Stiles shifts uncomfortably. After a few more seconds of quiet, “What is it that you want me to say?” He meets her eye, doesn’t let himself look away. “What am I supposed to tell you?”

“You’re not _supposed_ to tell me anything,” she answers easily, readily. “This is your time. You can talk - or not talk - about whatever you wish. There aren’t any rules of conversation here.”

He sits up, moving forward to the edge of the couch. He scratches his cheek. “Okay,” he tries slowly. “Well, what if I would _like_ to talk about some stuff, but I can’t really talk about everything because...” - _because it involves werewolves and murder_ \- “...just because. What then?”

She puts the notepad aside. “Then I’d suggest you talk about the stuff you feel comfortable sharing, and leave the rest out.” She adjusts her glasses. “I’m not the police. You don’t get in trouble for lying or cherry-picking what you want to discuss. I’m here for you. This is all about your mental health. Tell me what you want.”

Stiles ponders that for a moment. The ticking of the clock seems to grow louder, pounding out a tempo in his ear drum. The minute hand inches ever closer to that cheerful nightingale. After a while, “I dunno. Everything’s changing.”

Brenda’s neutral expression relaxes, loses its tension. She sits back comfortably, hands resting lightly on the armrests, fingernails drifting along the seams. “Hmm,” she hums, prompting him to continue.

He huffs out a mirthless little laugh, rubs his hands together. Sits back. “Actually, scratch that. The world is changing, but the people are all the same.” He laughs again, rubs his chin ruefully. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s it.”

“Expand on that,” she says, and Stiles feels a rush of gratitude when she keeps her focus on him and doesn’t start writing anything down. “What do you mean?”

Stiles sighs, tilting his head back to gaze at the ceiling. “My best friend,” he says. “Scott. Who, actually, let me be honest, is probably my only friend. He’s got a girlfriend now, and she’s sort of become the focus of all his attention.” He shrugs. “And I _get_ that. _That’s_ okay. But it’s just...” 

Brenda listens patiently, doesn’t pressure him to continue. Observes attentively.

“I don’t know how to put it,” Stiles admits. “I guess it’s just that he’s always been like this. He’s always been the sort of guy who spends most of his time with one person. Partly because he’s never been that popular, like me, but also just because that’s the way he is. That’s the way he like it.” He shrugs again. “But it used to be _me_ that he spent time with, and now it’s his girlfriend. Which, like I said, is okay, and I understand. But...yeah. The world’s changing, but the people...” He trails off. His shoulders slump. “I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“No, no.” Brenda shakes her head. “I think I understand where you’re coming from. You feel like the circumstances that have defined your life up until this point are changing, becoming something else, while the people you interact with on a day to day basis aren’t adapting to the new order of things.” She drums her fingers on the armrest. “Am I close?”

He thinks, nods slowly. “Something like that, yeah.”

Satisfied, she crosses her legs once more, shifting in her seat. “A lot of young people feel that way,” she assures him. “A lot of Americans, for that matter. I hear it quite often from my patients. Feelings of being trapped in a radically changing universe with the inability to change themselves.” She peers at him through her spectacles, hand coming up to rest against her cheek. “You are who you are,” she says simply. “Your personality. Your memories, your experiences. All of the things that have shaped you. You can’t just turn all of that off with the flip of a switch because you think you need to adjust to something. It doesn’t work like that.”

“I know,” he says, surprised at how bitter he sounds. “I do.” He sighs tiredly. “I just...I dunno.”

They sit quietly for some time. Stiles glances at the clock. Fifteen minutes till the bell. Brenda watches him intently, doesn’t move.

Eventually, Stiles speaks up. “It was about a rabbit.”

Brenda blinks, taken aback for a moment, then steadies her expression into carefully-schooled neutrality. “What was?”

“The pan-” He crosses his legs. “When I passed out in class. I was thinking about a rabbit.”

“A rabbit?”

He nods. “Yeah. This past January, I found a baby rabbit out in the woods. He got his foot twisted or something, and he was just lying there. And I thought he was going to die, so I took him home. To take care of him.” He chews on his lip. “My dad didn’t really like it because he thought it might be diseased or whatever,  but he let me keep it. He said I could keep it until it was strong enough to go out by itself again.”

Brenda doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a sound of acknowledgment. She watches him, listens to the story.

“So I did,” Stiles continues, voice soft, distant. “I kept him and I fed him, and I made him healthy again, and he was _mine_. For a while, anyway.” He pauses. “And when spring came around, I took him back out to the woods and set him loose. And he ran off.”

The clock ticks in the silence.

“So you were thinking about that moment?” Brenda asks. “Letting the rabbit go? That’s what you were thinking about the day of the panic attack?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No. That morning, I saw a rabbit lying in the road with its neck severed on the way to school. Somebody had run it over.” He twists his hands together, expression blank. Abruptly, he lets out a little laugh. “This is stupid,” he mutters. He looks up, a wry smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “It’s stupid. It wasn’t even the _same_ rabbit. I know that. It wasn’t the same color or anything.” He leans back in his seat, rubbing his forehead.

Brenda’s expression isn’t quite so neutral anymore. “Then what?” she asks softly. “What about that sight drove you to the breaking point?”

He looks up at her. “Because it _could_ have been,” he says simply. “It could have been mine. It could have been my rabbit. The one I took in and fed and raised and, you know, _loved_ , I guess. As much as you can love a pet you’re not intending to keep.” His thumb brushes up against his mouth, smoothing the skin there. “It could have been,” he murmurs. “I could have done all of that, then set him free, and then he could have run out and got himself hit by a car straight away.” He looks up. “And then what?” he whispers.

The hour hand strikes and the mechanical voice of the nightingale begins to sing.

 

**XII.**

Derek comes to see him, finally. He slips in through the window after all the lights in the house have been turned off, creeps up next to the bed and slams his hand over Stiles’ mouth, stifling any noise.

“We need to talk,” he says.

They go outside, take a walk down the street. It’s May now, and the weather is fine. Stiles doesn’t need a jacket; just strolls down the road in his sweat pants and t-shirt, flip-flops slapping against the blacktop, breathing in the semi-warmth.

“Can’t you use doors?” Stiles says, just to say something. Not even expecting Derek to answer.

Derek doesn’t. “I think I might have made a mistake,” he says instead, gritting the words out like it’s seriously killing him to admit a fault.

“A mistake?” Stiles asks.

“With Jackson.”

Stiles takes in a long breath. “Ah.”

Derek gives him sharp look. “Don’t be smug,” he warns. “Don’t.”

Stiles holds up his hands, broadcasting peace. “What, you mean rub it in?” he says innocently. “I would never.”

Derek just grunts, shoving his hands in his pockets, looking all broody and tall and intimidating. “I want you to talk to him,” he says, again speaking through his teeth, as though asking for assistance is the most painful thing in the world.

That gets under Stiles’ skin, and he glares and says, “Why? What good am _I_ supposed to do? I’m not involved in this shit anymore, remember?”

Derek’s hands ball into fists at his sides, and he looks for a moment like he’s carefully considering the ramifications of bashing Stiles’ head in. Then his fists unclench and he breathes in calm and slow. “You’re good at this,” he says shortly. “Better than me. A hell of a lot better than your idiot buddy.”

“Scott,” Stiles interjects, not forgetting how Derek stole his friend’s chance for the cure.

“Talk to him,” Derek prods, ignoring the comment. “Try and convince him to submit to me. Explain the consequences.”

Stiles crosses his arms. “He was _there_ , Derek. When Peter-” He cuts off at Derek’s growl, voice catching in his throat upon being faced with a pair of glowing red orbs. “He was there,” he says, a little more timidly. “If he doesn’t know how serious this stuff is already, there’s nothing I can say that will change his mind now.”

“Try,” Derek says, turning on his heel and walking away, ending the conversation abruptly. 

Stiles watches him go. “I don’t think so,” he mutters to himself.

 

**XIII.**

And he’s not going to do it. He’s really not.

But there are certain things a guy just can’t ignore. Certain things his conscience won’t allow him to dismiss.

“The body has yet to be identified,” the newscaster is saying, pointing behind him as the camera zooms in on the paramedics wheeling a bright yellow body bag into the back of an ambulance. Stiles’ stomach lurches as a splotch of red blossoms on the side of the fabric.

Words leap out at him, cutting through the ringing in his ears. 

“Brutalized.”

“Decapitated.”

“Thought to be an animal attack.”

His father sits off to his side, oblivious to his distress, clucking his tongue. “Poor guy,” he murmurs, swallowing down the rest of his scrambled eggs. “What a mess.” He stands, brushing crumbs off his shirt and pulling Stiles into a quick hug. “Gotta go to work. See you tonight.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says faintly, watching the TV screen with a sort of dazed detachment.

So it looks like he’s going to need to have that talk after all.

 

**XIV.**

“Mr. Argent invited me over for dinner with the family,” Scott is telling him as they run around the track, tuning out the expletive-laden encouragements of Coach Finstock. “It’s the first time since he found out I’m a werewolf that he’s voluntarily invited me into his house.” He nudges Stiles, expression anxious. “That’s progress, right? Don’t you think? It’s a good sign?”

“Sure, yeah,” Stiles says distractedly, eyes focused up ahead where Jackson is rounding the bend of the track, legs pumping hard and quick, brown knitted with concentration.

“I think so, too,” Scott says, completely unaware. “I’m sure of it. I mean, it’s got to be, right? Why else would he want me to come over?” He nods to himself, jogging alongside Stiles. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Yeah, that’s it.”

As they come up to the curve, Jackson meet Stiles’ gaze from across the way. Stiles has a moment of realization - remembering that the last time the two of them spoke was at the gas station on Christmas Eve - and he feels his chest growing tight.

Jackson’s mouth twists into a meaningless smirk, and it’s so much different than the usual disdain Stiles has grown accustomed to in their interactions. It’s nasty and knowing and amused, and it means _nothing_ at all, but it hits home for some reason, and Stiles feels a little sick.

Later, in the locker room, Stiles hangs around until everyone else has filed out, taking his time with getting dressed. On a hunch, he goes to the stall where Jackson showers, bending down and examining the grate of the floor drain. Popping out the miniature screws, he lifts it up and reaches down inside.

When his hand comes away, there’s a mess of moist, pulpy redness drenching the length of his forearm, chunks of matter clinging to his skin.

Swallowing back bile, he looks away, he squeezes his eyes shut and pops the grate back in place. Then he turns on the faucet and washes it all away.

The crimson streaks pool together in the grout, then vanish into the blackness of the hole. 

All gone.

 

**XV.**

It doesn’t seem earned, Stiles will think later. It doesn’t feel dramatically correct.

Because there’s no build-up. There’s no preamble to this moment. Some small part of him still clings to the idea that it’s possible to see a few steps ahead of the game as long as you pay close enough attention.

But life isn’t like that. Moments like this - these violent times - they’re quick and brutal and unpredictable.

And no one sees it coming.

“Jackson,” Stiles calls, his breath fogging up around his mouth in the woodland air. It’s strangely cold. Too cold for summertime.

Jackson stops jogging, pausing to turn and fix his gaze on the other boy, eyes glowing in the dark. This isn’t the moment Stiles would have chosen - running into one another in the forest in the evening - but it’s as good a time as any. And the conversation can’t wait.

“Stilinski.” The reply is short, saturated with disdain. But it’s all surface level. There’s an uncertainty beneath it.

Emboldened, Stiles takes a step closer, feet crunching on the leaves. “We need to talk.”

Jackson snorts derisively, “It’s been months. We could have been talking the whole time. I tried to talk to you before, remember?”

Stiles pauses, shoulders sagging. “Christmas,” he acknowledges wearily. Sighs. “I didn’t know that’s what that was. I thought you just wanted someone to get drunk with.”

“Yeah, well.” Jackson barks out a quiet laugh, looks away. “Even if that’s what I had wanted, is that such a bad thing?”

Stiles opens and closes his mouth, shivers in the sudden gust of wind. “That’s not really the point anymore,” he says gently. 

There’s a crackling up the way, and Jackson perks up at the sound, stiffening in alert. “Shh,” he says. Stiles ignores him.

“We need to talk,” he insists. “About...the stuff on the news.”

That gets Jackson’s attention. His brow wrinkles, eyes narrowed, confused. “What?” he says. Thinks for a second. His eyes light up with understanding. He shakes his head, expression open and disbelieving. “Wait up. That’s not-”

The crackling sound resounds again, closer this time, and the beam of a flashlight cuts a path between them, bringing the conversation to a dead halt. Footsteps stamping down on the earth and the leaves bring Chris Argent over the side of the hill, light in one hand, shotgun in the other. There’s a terrifying emptiness in his face, echoes of his sister in the ruthless tilt of his mouth.

“I think I made myself crystal clear,” he says, calm and low, gun coming up to rest in the crook of his arm, barrel drifting lazily to aim in Jackson’s direction. “I explained the code.”

Stiles holds up his hands, heart hammering in his chest. “We can talk about this,” he says, voice wavering. “We can talk like people, right? No guns, no violence.”

“You’ve got your facts wrong,” Jackson growls, and his eyes are on fire now, skin rippling, threatening to shift at a moment’s notice.

Mr. Argent holds the barrel steady, taking careful aim now, head cocked in warning. “Don’t you move,” he orders. “Stay right there.”

“We can _talk_ ,” Stiles insists, weaker this time. “No violence.”

Jackson moves, eyes still focused on the gun pointed at his chest. He starts to circle the hunter, his teeth starting to elongate. “Back the fuck off,” he snarls. “I won’t tell you twice, asshole.”

“Jackson!” Stiles eyes go wide, shakes his head furiously. “That’s not helping.”

Mr. Argent flicks the safety off. “Get out of here, Stiles,” he says, voice dark and deadly. “Leave now.”

“No violence,” Stiles whispers.

Jackson drops to all fours, hackles raising, and Mr. Argent pulls back the hammer.

It doesn’t feel earned. That’s all Stiles can think as he panics and darts forward, moving as soon as the hunter’s back is turned. There should have been talking and understanding, without weapons, without it coming to this. There should have been a lot of things.

But instead they’re _here_ , and all Stiles can do is slam himself into the man’s back, throwing his aim off center as he takes the shot. The blast is deafening, and Stiles clamps his hands over his ears, falling to his knees as Mr. Argent wheels around and knocks him flat on his back, foot coming down on his throat. There’s a heart-stopping bellow, and Jackson charges forward, claw coming out to grab the man by the throat and throw him against the trunk of an old oak tree. Mr. Argent hits it with a loud thud, then slumps to the floor, shotgun lying uselessly in the leaves nearby.

It’s over in seconds.

Stiles gets to his feet shakily, dusting off the knees of his jeans. “Thanks,” he chokes out, turning to Jackson.

His breath catches in his chest.

Jackson’s reverted back to his human form, chest still heaving from the transformation. His shirt is ripped, hanging in tatters around his shoulders. His eyes are wide, startled. His hand is held up, raised up to eye level. It’s drenched with blood.

The two boys just stare for a moment, stunned, then turn to look at the hunter’s prone form lying against the tree. His head is cocked at a weird angle, eyes open and blank. Unseeing. Stiles leans in closer, cautiously, and swallows hard at what he sees. 

The man’s throat is ripped open, completely exposed. His entire front is dripping with red.

“Jackson,” Stiles breathes, nauseous. He turns, shaking. Jackson looks just as sick, the muscles in his throat working furiously.

“I...” he starts.

He’s interrupted by the pattering of feet, coming in quick through the undergrowth. The two boys tense, ready for another fight, but then the bushes part and Derek comes running into the clearing.

He skids to a halt, the redness in his eyes fading, replaced by shock. He stares at the grisly scene, still as a statue.

In the distant blackness, a nightingale begins to sing.


	2. Nevada

**I.**

“For how long?” the sheriff asks, fingers rapping at the countertop as he waits for the coffeemaker to finish its cycle.

“Probably a week,” Stiles says, rubbing his wrist absently. He leans forward in the wooden chair, elbows thumping down on the kitchen table. The bags under his eyes are impossible not to notice. His entire posture is slumped, weary. “It’s a bit of a drive to get there. Which is why we’re staying so long.”

The sheriff looks up, expression silently querying. “You and Jackson?” he prompts.

Stiles nods. “Yeah.”

“Not Scott?”

Stiles’ toes curl, squeaking in his sandals. “No. Just me and Jackson.”

“Hmm.” His father is watching him carefully now, gaze askance. Stiles feigns ignorance, keeps his face blank. “I see.”

Stiles scratches the back of his head. “Uh huh,” he says meaninglessly.

The sheriff is still staring. “I wasn’t aware you were friends friends with him.” The coffeemaker dings. He turns, pulling out the pitcher to pour himself a cup. “The way you’ve talked about him in the past, I’ve always thought you didn’t care much for him.”

“Yeah, well.” Stiles stands, going to the refrigerator as an excuse to hide his expression. “It’s sort of a new thing. We’re friendlier now.”

His father frowns, bringing the mug up to his mouth. “So it seems,” he murmurs, blowing on the piping hot liquid. He’s staring again, an unspoken question in his eyes.

Ignoring it, Stiles asks, “So is that a yes? Can I go?”

The sheriff takes a sip, smacks his lips quietly. He shrugs noncommittally. “I suppose it’s alright. It’ll be good for you to spend some quality time with somebody other than Scott for a change.” He blinks over the rim of the mug. “If he offers you alcohol, you say no. Is that clear?”

Stiles nods. “Yep.”

“No drugs, either.”

That draws a small smile from him, in spite of the circumstances. “I got it, Dad. Don’t worry about that stuff. That’s not what this is about.”

The sheriff bites his lip, glancing down at the floor. “What _is_ it about?” he asks, voice soft, a father’s tone instead of a cop’s.

Stiles looks away. “Just like you said,” he lies. “Trying to make new friends. Hang out with someone other than Scott.”

His father looks decidedly unconvinced, but he doesn’t press the issue further. “You have Brenda’s number, right? You’ll call her if you need anything?”

“I do, and I will.”

The sheriff’s beeper goes off, and he unhooks it from his side, frowning slightly. He sighs. “I’m on shift all night, so I won’t be back until morning.” He looks up. “You’re leaving early?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, crack of dawn. Long drive, like I said.”

The beeper buzzes again. The sheriff glares at it. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. He crosses the room, pulls Stiles into a quick hug. “I love you, son.” There’s something weird in his expression, something off, but Stiles doesn’t ask. “Be safe. Call me when you get there.”

Stiles quirks a small smile. “I’ll be fine.” Adds, “Might not be able to call though. Jackson says the cell reception is a little wonky out on the lake.”

His father doesn’t look happy with that, and he opens his mouth to say something, but the beeper goes off yet again, distracting him. “Alright, have fun, kiddo. See you when you get back.”

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, holding an air of neutrality until the front door clicks shut and the sound of the police cruiser’s tires pulling away down the drive reaches his ears. He lets out a long breath, hand coming up to wipe at his forehead.

The kitchen is silent apart from the low hum of the refrigerator. Stiles closes it, muffling the noise.

He trundles up the stairs to his bedroom to try and get get some shut-eye.

His restless sleep is filled with visions of crimson rain.

 

**II.**

They meet at the Hale house at the crack of dawn.

Jackson is already there, leaning up against the side of his car, brow furrowed, mouth a thin line. If the dark circles around his eyes are any indication, he probably hasn’t gotten much sleep either. 

The car is shiny, clean like it’s just been washed. There’s a black duffel bag in the backseat and a pack of water bottles wrapped in plastic on the floor. Jackson’s wearing a simple white t-shirt and blue sweat pants; clothes for the road.

Stiles jumps at the sound of Derek’s voice. “Park around back,” the werewolf says, coming down the front steps, wiping dirt off his hands. “You’re driving together.” He nods at the Jeep. “Leave that out of sight.”

Stiles pulls it around and walks back to the front, blinking as the morning sun begins to peek through the trees in blinding rays. Derek holds out his hand, takes Stiles’ car keys. He glances between the two boys. “Cell phones,” he says simply, fingers curling in a gimme gesture.

“Mmph,” Jackson grunts, but he hands it over without further complaint. Stiles obeys wordlessly.

Derek pockets the cells, still brushing grime off his forearms. Stiles’ stomach lurches, seeing his hands; there is still redness underneath his fingernails. Derek pulls out a simple black phone, a cheap little thing. He hands it to Stiles. “Prepaid. For emergencies only,” he says emphatically, glaring at each of them in turn. “ _Not_ to ask how much longer. _Not_ to complain or to ‘chat.’ _Not_ to call your friends. Life or death situations only. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Stiles answers, and Derek looks momentarily off-put by the ease of his obedience, but he nods and turns to glare down Jackson.

“Clear,” Jackson mumbles, not meeting Derek’s eye.

Derek puts his hands on his hips, mouth twisting to the side, thinking. “I’ll contact you when it’s safe to come back,” he says. “Hopefully I can clear up this mess in a week’s time. But no promises.”

Jackson just nods dumbly, but Stiles has questions. “What are you going to do?” he asks, too tired and numb to feel threatened by Derek’s scowl. “How are you going to fix this?”

Derek grimaces. “You don’t want to know,” he says in a tone that puts an end to _that_ conversation. He nods at the rising sun. “Daybreak,” he deadpans. “You’d better get going.”

Stiles goes around to the side, clambering into the passenger’s seat without protest. Jackson opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but shuts it when Derek growls low and threatening. Ducking his head, he gets in the driver’s seat and starts the car.

The tires squelch against the gravel path, and Stiles watches in the side mirror as Derek’s figure recedes into the distance as they drive up the way. 

The car rounds the bend and the Hale house vanishes from sight. Stiles shifts in his chair, pushing it into recline. He blinks as the road opens up to bare the windshield to the full blast of sunshine. He squints out the window.

There’s a rabbit sitting in the undergrowth, nose crinkled with curiosity as it watches them pass.

 

**III.**

It’s the first week of summer. The very first week. And instead of hanging with their friends and shooting the shit, they’re here together, playing hideaway and driving down to stay at Jackson’s father’s Lake Tahoe summer home. 

The clouds come in strong around midday, large and wispy and gray, casting playful shadows across the stretch of dry grass in the California hills. The car winds smoothly along the road, engine thrumming hot, vibrating in the underbelly of the vehicle.

It’s a silent drive. They don’t speak, don’t even look at each other. Jackson pops in a CD after about an hour of fidgeting, and they listen to it on repeat, volume turned down low. Jackson does all of the driving. Stiles stares out the window.

The afternoon brings thunderstorms on the horizon behind them. The road ahead is bright and clear, and the crackling of lightening sparks down homeward bound, followed up fast by the monstrous boom of sound. Stiles leans his shoulder up against the side window, taking the sleeve of his t-shirt and wiping away the smudges to better watch the scenery passing by.

A deer frolics out in the open under a patch of sunlight shining through the expanse of clouds. It’s all alone, and Stiles watches as it bounds up a mound of boulders and jagged rocks to reach a tiny plateau. It slips at the top, but quickly regains its footing, and its posture relaxes at the summit. The grass is green there, and the creature bends down to feed.

Jackson doesn’t focus on the sights, just keeps his gaze steady on the road ahead. Stiles offers to drive part of the way, and Jackson breathes in quick and sharp, like he’s prepared to snap out a nasty reply. But instead he just says, “No,” flat and toneless, and Stiles shrugs like it’s nothing and decides to get some sleep instead.

When he wakes less than an hour after that, they’re at a gas station about 100 miles out from the site, sky growing dim as the sun sets in the west. The wind is picking up, and Jackson gets his hoodie out of his duffel bag in the back while the pump is filling the tank. He leans against the side door, hands shoved in his front pockets, shoulders slumped, scowling in a manner reminiscent of Derek.

Leaving him to brood, Stiles goes in to pick up some snacks and makes idle conversation with the friendly casher man. Jackson lets him chat for a good ten minutes before laying on the horn to hurry him along.

Getting back in the car, Stiles hands him a bag of pretzels. “In case you’re hungry,” he says, reaching around to grab a water bottle from the backseat.

Jackson doesn’t thank him for it, but he does shell out a couple of bucks and place it on the dashboard at Stiles’ side before putting the key in the ignition.

 

**IV.**

They stop at a woodside parking lot about a mile from the lake to drop off the car.

“We’re leaving it here?” Stiles queries, surprised.

Jackson nods. He gestures down the road through the trees, in the direction of the water. “The cabin is on the other side of the border. In Nevada.” It’s the first full sentence he’s spoken all day.

Stiles waits by the car while Jackson goes over to the ranger’s station and fills out the form for parking and pays the fee. He comes back five minutes later and places the green ticket up in the front windshield.

They’re both wearing hoodies now, shivering slightly in the summer breeze as they walk along the perimeter of the dirt road on the way down to the shore. Their bags hang over their shoulders by way of thick, black straps. An owl hoots in the treetops above, and Stiles hears the snapping of twigs as some forest animal lumbers over the mossy slope somewhere off to the left. He shudders. The woods are not a safe place to him anymore. Closing his eyes for the briefest of moments, Chris Argent’s still form swims to the surface of his memory.

Jackson’s sandals make a dull clapping noise as he patters along the dirt path. Stiles gives him a look, and they both move over further to the side, feet coming down on the vegetation instead. The blades of grass are damp, and cool wetness seeps into the callused skin of Stiles’ toes.

The road opens up ahead at the shore. It’s too dark to see much of anything, but Stiles can see the light of the crescent moon beaming down on the rippling surface of the waves as a bird caws harshly from somewhere down by the pier.

It’s late, and the ferries have stopped running for the day, but Jackson manages to coax the patrolman on night watch to give them a ride across the lake. The motorboat is small and cramped, and the two boys huddle together in the back as the officer follows Jackson’s directions, piloting down current towards an alcove on the other side. It’s not quite cold enough for Stiles to see his breath fogging up before him, but he’s still drawn to the body heat at his side, and he presses in tighter, pulling on the drawstrings of his hoodie to warm his neck. Jackson jolts slightly at the contact, but he doesn’t shove him away.

The boat cuts swiftly through the gentle waves, water whipping up in the back as the propellor whirs. A thin mist hangs above the surface, and the boys blink as tiny particles spray in their eyes.

On the opposite end, they clamber ashore, feet sloshing in the shallow muck. Jackson tries to pay the patrolman, but he refuses, wishes them a good holiday. 

Stiles chuckles in spite of himself. A holiday.

The headlamps of the motorboat spin around and disappear into the haze, sound of the engine fading with the light. The boys are left alone in the dark, and Jackson fumbles around for a moment, fishing in his bag for a flashlight. He pulls it out, taps the back until it sparks forth, illuminating the path.

The cabin is only a couple hundred feet or so from the water’s edge, just up the hillside behind the first row of trees. It’s a nice place, a two-story log cabin with a green-tile roof and a small side patio facing the lake. It’s the kind of place Stiles is sure his own father could never afford, especially on a policeman’s salary.

Stepping up to the front door, they reach out to grab hold of the doorknob at the same time, hands brushing together. Jackson jerks back, grumbling underneath his breath. Stiles tries the handle, discovering that - of course - it’s locked.

“Ah,” he says pointlessly, moving back so Jackson can unlock it.

Inside, Jackson flips the set of switches on the wall, and the boys watch as the lights flicker into existence. It’s not enormous, but it’s definitely expensive. The main room is furnished; a couch and two armchairs set up on a rug by the empty fireplace. A little kitchen enclave off to the side with a window above the sink facing the lake. A wooden door to the bathroom next to the staircase tucked away in the corner.

Jackson shuts the door, and it makes a sound like a pressure chamber closing up. Like being sucked into a vacuum. Stiles adjusts the strap of his bag, looking around. He makes a soft noise of approval. “Nice,” he says honestly.

Crickets are chirping outside, and the full weight of drowsiness begins to take its effect on them. Jackson yawns as the mount the stairs, their still-wet sandals squelching with every step. They pass the first door - the study - and Jackson passes the second, stopping at the third at the end of the hall. He pauses briefly, turning to meet Stiles’ eye. They stare at each other for a moment, then Jackson nods a wordless goodnight and retires to his bedroom. He shuts the door behind him, and Stiles blinks at it for a few seconds before stepping into his own.

The room is tiny, sparsely decorated. The bed is made, the air smells fresh. There’s a bedside table with a single lamp for illumination and small chest of drawers in the corner. A pair of antlers are mounted on the wall above the headboard. No ceiling fan.

Too tired to unpack, Stiles drops his bag down by the drawers and gets into bed fully clothed, depositing his sandals beside the little table. He cracks the window for coolness and slumps down in the soft sheets. His eyes slowly adjust to the darkness and he blinks up at the ceiling as sleep begins to overtake him.

The woodwork of the ceiling is frayed in the middle, a single thin crack running from one end of the room to the other. Stiles follows the line with his eyes, tracing the zigzag pattern with weary detachedness. Back and forth, back and forth. Following the line until his eyes roll back into slumber.

He does not dream.

 

**V.**

****

Jackson isn’t inside when he wakes up late the next morning, and for a moment, he’s filled with a sense of unease. But after poking his head into the other boy’s room and seeing the unmade bed and duffel bag lying on the floor, his worries are put to rest.

The artificial lighting in the foyer is dull and unpleasant, and Stiles flicks it off and opens the shutters on the windows instead, allowing the sun to shine through and brighten the place up. He meanders around the downstairs area for a while, prods at the fireplace, goes through the drawers in the kitchen. A cardinal chirps on the veranda, and Stiles steps out through the side door, breathing in the scent of pine in the comfortable warmth of the daylight. He sits on the porch swing for some time, feet dangling, drifting lazily against the smooth floorboards.

The lake is so much bluer than he was expecting, almost unreal in its beauty. The sound of laughter and splashing water reaches his ears as a family plays down by the shore about a half mile over. It almost feels like an actual vacation.

He goes back inside around noon, half-stepping towards the kitchen before remembering there isn’t any food. He closes the screen door and goes back upstairs, entering the study to nose around for a bit.

There’s a bookshelf situated on one side, stretching from one corner to the next, packed tight with various texts and decorative items. Cocking his head, Stiles squints at a William Faulkner collection on the top shelf; a series of three books which, when placed together, form a picture of the author along the spines. The books are out of order, so that the back of the man’s head is in front of his eyes. He’s staring off to the side, expression curious, questioning. The effect makes it appear as though he’s staring at the back of his own head, trying to determine who he’s looking at. He doesn’t know that it’s him, Stiles thinks with absentminded amusement.

A desk sits by the window, and Stiles observes it interestedly as he opens up the blinds. It’s relatively clean, not cluttered in the least, and the drawers are all locked, little keyholes smiling up at him tantalizingly. There’s an array of family photos in the right hand corner, and Stiles is taken aback by how young Jackson looks. And by how happy. He’s grinning broadly in the center picture, hair damp, orange lifejacket riding up around his neck. His parents are positioned on either side of him, arms around each other’s shoulders. They’re smiling too, but their expressions fit the typical family-photo bill. Smiles of the ‘say cheese!’ variety. Jackson’s happiness is genuine and unforced in a way that perhaps only a child can pull off.

On the wall opposite the bookshelf, there’s a giant framed painting, hung from a pair of iron hooks and gleaming with color in the midday light. Stiles goes over to examine it more closely, stepping to the side so that the sun can illuminate the nuances of the brushstrokes.

There are people in the painting, hundreds of them it seems, all scattered around a rust colored desert, wandering aimlessly with lost expressions on their faces. Many of them look to be children, frail and meek, all skin and bones. The sky is dark, sunless, and the people are standing amidst the boulders and the cacti, staring at the horned lizards and the empty river basin. A nest of serpents rests in the middle of the congregation, a tangling of little green snakes swarming together in a hole in the earth. Several of the people are gathered round, gazing down at them expressionlessly. There are no trees. Stiles tilts his head and blinks, staring at the upper left corner. There’s one man standing apart from the rest of the group, his back turned, staring through the bars of a great stone gate. One hand is raised, fingers touching the grid-work with a weird sense of longing. Or so it seems to Stiles. The land beyond the gate is out of focus, distant, and Stiles thinks he wants to know what lies beyond there just as much as the man in the painting.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he glances at the small placard hung up next to the painting. It reads: _A Summer’s Day in Purgatory_.

The sound of the downstairs door banging open startles him, and he steps out of the study to peer over the banister, looking down into the main room. Jackson is heaving several bags of groceries onto the countertop in the kitchen, his sideburns damp with sweat, chest going up and down, tongue hanging out. He looks up, hearing Stiles’ footsteps, and he nods in greeting.

“Went into town to get food,” he explains, starting to unload items into the drawers and the refrigerator.

“You walked?” Stiles asks, coming down the stairs.

Jackson shrugs. “No car,” he says simply.

Stiles stops on the other side of the countertop, resting his hand near the sink, fingernails drumming a quiet beat. “I could have helped you carry stuff.”

Jackson glances at him, expression blank, then opens up a loaf of bread, pulling out a couple slices. “You were asleep,” he says, fishing a jar of jelly out of one of the bags.

They eat separately: Jackson out on the patio with a paper plate, Stiles inside on the couch. They can see each other through the windowpane, but they don’t speak, avoid one another’s eye. The wildlife rumbles about in the trees, and they pay no mind. They just eat in silence.

The afternoon passes with surprising quickness, and it’s wasted on idle activities. Stiles unpacks his duffel bag, tossing his clothes into the chest of drawers and retrieving a book from the side pocket. He sits on the edge of the porch in the shade, hand raised to shield his eyes from the sunset as he reads. The silence is interrupted only by the gentle splashing noises from down the way as Jackson stands by the shore and skips pebbles across the surface of the lake. Stiles watches him for some time, and even at a distance, he can see the boy’s subdued expression, the distant look in his eyes.

As night begins to fall once more, the nighttime cruise ship comes by their side, passing slowly. The raucous laughter of the partygoers onboard disturbs the serenity of the moment, and Stiles and Jackson return to the cabin to fix dinner. Sandwiches again, roast beef this time. They eat together in the downstairs foyer, chewing their food in silence.

Swallowing his last bite, Jackson glances at the fireplace, sucks on his lower lip. “I’ll get some wood for that tomorrow,” he says.

“Hmm,” Stiles says.

They leave the prepaid cell phone on the countertop by the refrigerator, and Jackson checks it around midnight, just before they go up to their bedrooms. No calls.

Standing by the doors in the upstairs hallway, they repeat last night’s routine, nodding to each other before retiring to their separate quarters. Stiles goes to bed straight away, wanting to get up early, maybe spend the first half of the day at the lake. The walls are paper thin though, and he can hear Jackson pacing around in his room for about a half hour before the shuffling eventually stops. 

A fly lands on the glass of Stiles window, buzzing noisily, cleaning its legs. Stiles reaches over and taps the spot, shooing it away. Then he lies back and gazes up at the ceiling once more, trying to drift away by staring at the crack. His attention is drawn, instead, to the pair of antlers hanging above the headboard. They loom out over him in the dark, spread out like twisted wings of bone. 

Stiles closes his eyes and visualizes the stag they must have belonged to at some point. He pictures it running through the forest, hooves pounding the earth as it surveys its domain.

Wild and free.

 

**VI.**

They wake around the same time, bright and early, and it’s Sunday morning, so the lake is noticeably less busy than yesterday. 

Jackson picked up several boxes of cereal at the store, so Stiles pours himself a bowl of cheerios and scarfs it down with a glass of milk, picking up where he left off in his book while he eats. It’s a virtually cloudless day, and the sun is shining full force. The weather is warmer, and Stiles can feel the golden heat on the back of his neck, even through the foyer window.

The upstairs door at the end of the hall opens, and Jackson comes out shirtless, clad in a dark blue swimsuit, a towel slung over his shoulder. Stiles’ stomach lurches unpleasantly, and he plays with his spoon, staring fixedly at a spot on the floor.

Jackson walks straight over to him, totally forging breakfast. He wags a bottle of suntan lotion in his face. “Get my back?” he asks shortly.

Stiles feels an irrational pang of annoyance, snaps, “We’re not on vacation, you know.”

The anger evaporates immediately after the words are out of his mouth, and seeing Jackson’s wince, he quickly takes the bottle out of the other boy’s hand and motions for him to turn around, marshaling his expression into a silent apology.

Jackson glares at him like he wants to retort, but he ends up turning anyway, sitting down beside Stiles on the couch to give him better access. Stiles squirts out a couple of healthy globs of the white goop into his hand, rubs it into his palms and presses the length of his fingers into Jackson’s back.

The boy’s skin is warm to the touch, shoulder blades twitching slightly as Stiles rubs small circles there, smoothing the lotion into his back roughly. Jackson stares pointedly at a spot on the wall, and his expression is nonchalant, but there’s a muscle pulsing in his jawline. Stiles moves down, rubbing lines down the small of Jackson’s back, and Jackson makes a soft noise. A purr, Stiles would call it if he weren’t positive he’d get cold-cocked for saying it aloud. He freezes for a moment, and Jackson’s head twitches irritably.

“You finished?” he asks, embarrassment barely concealed.

Stiles swallows, runs his hands along Jackson’s side from his waist up to his armpits, then backs off, wiping away the reside of the lotion from his hands with his napkin. “Yeah, I’m done.”

Jackson stands abruptly, snatches his towel up and leaves through the screen door without bothering to take the bottle of lotion back.

When Stiles finishes up in the kitchen - washes out his dishes, puts on his sandals and swimsuit, gathers up his stuff - he follows out the back, going down to the dock to lay out in the sun on his towel with his book. It’s basically become a tool at this point, just something to hold. There’s no way in hell he’s actually going to be able to read with all that’s floating around in his mind.

He lies down on his stomach, relaxing into the feel of the uneven planks beneath the towel. He pulls out the book, thumb holding it open lazily in front of him, but his eyes peer over the rims of his sunglasses, gaze focused on the water.

Jackson is swimming freestyle, tracing a line from the corner of the dock to the bent tree dipping down into the shallow end at the edge of the alcove where the shore rides up to meet the porch of the cabin. He’s already got the beginnings of a tan going on, and Stiles wonders absently how much time he’s spent running around in the woods back home.

When Jackson swings back around to the dock, he stops to catch his breath, clinging to one of the support poles, shoulders shuddering.

Wanting to make nice, realizing that the week will be miserable if they keep up the silence, Stiles calls out, “How’s the water?”

Jackson brushes droplets out of his eyes, squinting in the sunlight, gazing up at him. “Fucking cold,” he answers, mouth twisting up at the side.

Stiles grins briefly, sets the book down. He shrugs out of his t-shirt, fabric clinging to his skin from the beads of sweat trailing down the back of his neck. He beckons to Jackson, holds up the bottle of suntan lotion. “Get me?” he asks. Adds, “Please?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jackson pulls himself out of the lake, shivering as he climbs the ladder, swimsuit dripping. Stiles pours some lotion into his hands and slides the bottle over, starts working on his legs, reaches up to smear some on his forehead and nose and cheeks. He tenses briefly when Jackson’s palms come down on his bare back, hissing at the freezing touch. 

“Damn it, that’s cold,” he mutters.

Jackson works at his back easily, much faster than Stiles had worked on his. Stiles finishes up on his legs and starts with his arms, eyes closing for a second as Jackson’s hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, thumb rubbing lotion on the skin there.

Stiles stands when he finishes with his arms, opening his mouth to thank Jackson, but he freezes when the other boy’s hands snake around over his shoulders, smoothing circles into his chest.

“I-” he starts, stopping abruptly as Jackson moves lower and rubs three quick lines down his stomach. 

“There you go,” Jackson says, like it’s nothing, then pops the cap back on the bottle and tosses it onto Stiles’ towel. He turns, lifting his hands over his head before diving back into the lake.

Stiles falters for a second, throat feeling thick. His face is flushed, burning red. It’s not a thing, he tells himself, not something worth reading too much into. So he shakes it off and cannonballs into the water, gasping when he comes up for breath. “Shit! That _is_ cold.”

“Told you,” Jackson calls, and he’s full-out grinning now, open and easy for the first time in ages. He whistles for Stiles to follow, then starts off towards the alcove. 

Stiles pushes away a mess of floating reeds and begins to swim after him.

 

**VII.**

Jackson keeps true to his word, brings back firewood later that night, although Stiles isn’t quite sure where he found the axe to cut it with.

It’s warmer tonight, so they decide to save the wood for later, placing it in a pile in the corner and going out to the porch swing to eat dinner together.

“Sandwiches for every meal isn’t going to cut it, dude,” Stiles says through a mouthful. He swallows it down, grabbing his bottle of Coke and untwisting the cap. “I’m going to go insane if I have to eat fourteen sandwiches this week.”

“There’s a grill on the other side of the cabin,” Jackson yawns, setting his paper plate aside. He gets off the swing and pads over a few feet to lie down on the terrace floor, hands folded over his heart. He closes his eyes, stifling another yawn. “I got some hot dogs and buns, so we can fix those sometime.”

Stiles stretches out on the swing, taking a gulp of his soda. “Sweet.” An owl hoots, and Stiles cranes his neck, scanning the trees for a moment before plopping back down. He glances over at Jackson, then looks away. Jackson is wearing a t-shirt now, but the neckline is riding low, and his skin is poking through, illuminated by the light of the stars. Stiles coughs. “Your family come here a lot?” he asks. “I saw the pictures in your dad’s study. From when you were a kid.”

Jackson hums in affirmation, eyes still closed. He stretches, hands coming up to cradle the back of his head, shirt rucking up at the bottom, exposing a sliver of toned stomach. Stiles looks away again, staring determinedly at a spot above him. Jesus, the thoughts isolation puts in your head...

“We used to come out here every summer,” Jackson says, turning on his side, looking up at Stiles on the swing. “My dad and my mom and me. Danny came with us the last couple of times, and that was good, too.” He scratches his hair, all sticking up at weird angles, sun dried and soft. “Haven’t been able to do it for a few years, though. Our schedules are all different now, and it’s hard to find time when we’re all free.” He shrugs. “It’s no big deal. There are other things to do.” He rolls over on his back, head tilted to look out at the lake. There’s no mist tonight, and the water is still, glassy, reflecting the heavens in near-perfect form. “Still, it’s nice to be back,” he murmurs.

They go inside after some time, throwing away their garbage in a trash bag they’ve tied to the cabinet handle underneath the sink. Jackson opens up the prepaid cell, checks the screen. No calls.

He sets it back down on the countertop, and Stiles stares at it, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “What do you think he’s going to do?” he asks quietly, foot coming up to scratch the back of his other leg. “Derek, I mean.”

Jackson looks away and down, face hidden from Stiles’ view. “I don’t know,” he says stiffly. “And I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Stiles sighs, going over to lean against the wall by the staircase. Jackson is standing under the fluorescent light in the kitchen, eyes cast in shadow by the glow. “We’re going to have to talk about it sometime. And I’m pretty sure you’d rather talk about it with me than with Derek.” He thinks for a second. “Not that you’re going to get out of that conversation, either. If Derek wants to talk to you, he’s going to do it, whether you like it or not. Believe me, I know that much.”

“He doesn’t get to have everything he wants,” Jackson says coldly, looking up now. “He wanted me to be his underling, and see how that worked out for him.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. “He didn’t want you to be his ‘underling.’ He wanted you to be his Beta. And he may be a bit of a dick, but he didn’t want that _just_ because he’s a dick. He wanted it because he needs a pack, and for whatever reason, he thought you were worth being a part of it.”

“Underling, Beta,” Jackson scoffs. “Different words, same meaning. I’m nobody’s bitch, Stilinski.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Stiles retorts, beginning to lose his patience. “This isn’t a competition. It’s not about who’s the best or the fastest or strongest, or whatever. It’s a survival thing. A family thing. It’s more important than your stupid authority issues.”

Jackson snorts derisively. “If that’s true, why didn’t you want to be a part of it?”

“Because I didn’t want to have to kill somebody else!” Stiles snaps, voice loud and sharp. “Because even though I wasn’t the one who fucking did it, I helped kill Derek’s uncle. I helped _kill_ someone, Jackson. Do you fucking get that? I couldn’t let myself be placed in that position again. I’m not cut out for that shit.” He takes in a deep breath, glaring. Jackson is silent, eyes wide, surprised. “It wasn’t worth the cost for me,” he mumbles, then laughs humorlessly. “Although I guess it didn’t matter, did it? I ended up right in the place I tried to avoid. Didn’t I?”

It comes out nastier than he intended, and he feels a twinge of guilt at the stricken look on Jackson’s face. But his point still stands, so instead of apologizing, he pushes off the wall and mounts the stairs, going up to his bedroom without another word.

Reaching the door at the top, he can see in the periphery of his vision that Jackson hasn’t moved a muscle, standing shock still in the kitchen by the refrigerator. Stiles goes into his room and lays down, kicking his sandals off the side onto the floor. He stays above the sheets, opening the window wider to let in the breeze.

He hears Jackson come up some time later, hears the door of the room next door open and shut quietly. There’s no pacing tonight.

 

**VIII.**

****

He intends to apologize in the morning, but Jackson’s already gone out for the day. He checks the bedroom first, makes sure the other boy’s stuff is still there. Then he goes down to eat a quick breakfast before walking down to the dock.

He sits on the edge of the pier for a while, feet dangling down over the side as he surveys the scenery. It’s cloudier today, cooler. The water is bluer than ever, and it matches the hue of the sky beaming through the wisps of white. On the opposite shore, Stiles can see a thin layer of snow at the base of the tree line, the same color and consistency as the whitecaps of the mountain range on the horizon.

There’s a two-story motorboat drifting through the water off to the left nearby, and Stiles squints at it, cupping his hand over his eyes. It’s a group of teenagers, kids about his age, and Jackson is with them, wearing his douchebag frat-boy-in-training grin and holding a can of beer. He makes fast friends, it seems.

Stiles rolls his eyes, stands to trudge back up the path.

Pushing aside the lingering unease he feels about the woods, he decides to go on a hike down one of the nature trails, bringing along a canteen of water, clipping it to his belt like a regular wilderness nut.

The path is narrow and winding, and the soil is rich, churning up into dust against the toes of his shoes as he walks along the way. The birds twitter and chirp in the canopy, fluttering about from branch to branch. Looking up, Stiles recognizes one or two of them from the clock in Brenda’s office.

Somewhere around midday, he realizes that he forgot to pack a lunch, and he turns back to go the cabin. He pauses, spotting a horse standing in the clearing up ahead.

It’s a beautiful brown mare, tall and majestic. Its mane hangs in long strands about its neck, torso poking out from behind a great green bush. Less than a hundred yards away, its big brown eyes are fixed on Stiles, watching him carefully, hooves planted firmly on the grassy knoll.

Stiles tilts his head, mouth twisting into a smile as he looks back, wishing he’d brought a camera.

The horse looks away and begins to trod away, and as its back half moves into sight from behind the bush, Stiles’ stomach clenches tight.

There’s a stillborn foal dangling out of the horse’s backside, its legs all twisted and caught in the uterine walls. The horse moves painfully, slowly, dragging itself along as the dead colt’s face scrapes against forest floor, big eyes glassy and staring emptily into space, fur all sticky and damp. The horse makes a soft whining noise, and it glances back at Stiles’, staring into his eyes for a few seconds before moving on again, pulling itself out of sight into the brambles up ahead.

Stiles’ heart hammers in his chest, and he feels a rush of nausea as he walks back down towards the cabin.

The sickness must show on his face, because when he walks in through the door and Jackson looks up at him, the other boy’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, gaze askance.

“You okay?” Jackson asks, and he actually sounds concerned. 

Stiles’ shoulders slump in relief that they’re not fighting, and he just nods. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just a little icky.”

Jackson doesn’t look convinced, and he comes around the side of the counter to put a hand under Stiles chin, forcing him to look up. He places the palm of his hand against Stiles’ forehead, feeling the clamminess there, and his expression morphs into unmasked skepticism. “Yeah, right. You’re burning up.” He steps back, chews on his lip. “Take a bath, or a shower. I’ll fix some soup.”

Stiles nods again, shooting him a grateful look. “Thanks,” he mumbles. Stopping at the bathroom entrance, he looks back, fingers clutching the doorframe. He clears his throat. “Hey.”

Jackson looks up from the can he’s trying to open. “Yeah?”

“About yesterday...” Stiles starts, trailing off when he realizes he’s not sure where he wants to go with that. Sorry by itself seems cheap.

Jackson seems to get it though, because he tilts his head in acknowledgment, mouth curling into a small, rueful smile. “Me too,” he says, responding to the unspoken apology.

Stiles spares him a smile in return and slips into the bathroom, turning the tap on full-blast, filling the tub with icy water. He strips down and sinks into the basin, eyelids fluttering as the chill attacks his heated flesh, soothing the oncoming headache with rapid speed.

He lays his cheek against the side of the tub, allowing himself to drift off in the cold.

When he wakes, it’s pitch-dark outside and he’s lying on the couch, wrapped up in a dark blue bathrobe. It takes a moment for the implications of that to sink in, and he flushes immediately, sitting up and looking around. Jackson is standing in the doorway leading out to the patio, staring out at the lake with a soda in hand. He turns, hearing Stiles’ movements, and he gestures with the bottle at the table next to the couch. “I can reheat that, if you want,” he says.

Stiles looks down at the bowl of soup, picks up the spoon to taste it, shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.” He turns around, meeting Jackson’s steady gaze. “Thanks,” he says, not really referencing the soup.

Jackson looks down at the floor, rubbing his thumb along the moist neck of the soda bottle. “Sure,” he says quietly. Then steps out on the veranda, screen door clicking shut behind him.

Stiles draws the bathrobe tight around his shoulders and finishes the soup at a slow pace. He’s in no hurry. His mind is restless.

 

**IX.**

****

It’s Tuesday now, and it’s warm out on the lake again.

Whatever tension and disagreeability their argument spawned seems to have dissipated entirely in the wake of Stiles’ brief sick spell. Jackson wakes him around mid-morning, already dressed in his swimsuit and t-shirt. He waves the suntan lotion in Stiles’ face, grinning. 

“Wanna go on the ferry?” he asks.

Stiles groans, rubbing his eyes, sitting up groggily. “Yeah, okay.”

They eat a quick breakfast and walk for a ways down the trail through the forest, winding around the perimeter of the lake towards the pier where the ferry is slated to depart. The double decker motorboat from the other day cuts a path through the water, drifting close to shore, and the occupants onboard call out merrily when they see the boys walking through the trees.

“Hey, Jackson!” one girl shouts. “We’re headed out, care to join?”

Stiles feels a totally irrational pang of jealousy, and he seriously considers telling her to fuck off, but Jackson does it for him, albeit less harshly.

“No thanks!” he calls back. He nods his head at Stiles. “My buddy and I are going to check out the ferry.”

The boat sputters off, disappearing past a cluster of trees, and Stiles turns to Jackson with a raised eyebrow. “Your buddy?” he snarks, lacing his voice with as much sarcasm as possible, mouth twisted up in a tease.

Jackson growls, but it’s low and good natured, and Stiles can see the beginnings of a smile forming before the boy turns away.

The ferry is packed tight, crowded with tourists from bow to stern: Hawaiian shirt wearing jokers with cheap sunglasses and disposable cameras, all urging their bored children to gather together for family photos with the lake and the mountains in the background. The monotone voice of the ship captain comes in crackly over the loudspeaker, droning on and on about the history of fishing in the tributaries, or some such nonsense.

Stiles and Jackson sit on a bench at the back, pressed together as far away from the rest of the group as possible. An elderly couple stands nearby, arguing loudly. The man’s lost his hearing aid, and his wife is berating him about the cost for a replacement. Jackson’s face is dark and sour, arms folded across his chest.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. “This was clearly a terrible idea.” He feels the vibration of Stiles’ shoulder against his, and he looks up to see the other boy shaking with silent laughter. “What?”

“This really was a terrible idea,” Stiles agrees, grinning as the captain tries to muster up some enthusiasm while pointing out the birds nesting on the nearby shore. Jackson looks uncertain, and Stiles nudges him playfully, a silent assurance.

Jackson seems less tense after that, and the two of them spend the remainder of the ride tuning out the boring lecture and absentmindedly people-watching.

 

**X.**

****

“I think I’m done with the lake,” Jackson says when they get back. “It’s beautiful and all, but there’s only so much looking you can do. And swimming sort of loses its appeal after a few days of nothing but.”

Stiles hums in agreement, glancing at his distorted reflection in the handle of the kitchen sink faucet. The upper portion of his cheeks are pinker, burned by the sun, reddening his face into the appearance of a flush. He rubs his chin, brushing away specks of water.

“Dude,” Jackson says, his tone different now, flat. Stiles looks up and sees that he’s holding up the cell. “Derek called. Left a text saying to call him back.”

“Put it on speaker,” Stiles instructs, coming around the sink to stand by him, tilting his head closer to the receiver.

It rings three times before Derek picks up. He opens with a short “Stiles?” and even over the shitty reception, the growl in his voice is unmistakable.

“We’re both here,” Stiles says, and Jackson makes a soft noise of acknowledgment, placing his elbows down on the countertop, staring at the phone.

“I called two hours ago,” Derek says. “Where were you?”

“Out,” Jackson answers impatiently. “What did you call for? Can we come home now, or what?”

“No,” Derek snaps. “I’m just checking in.”

Jackson makes a strangled whining sound, and Stiles huffs disbelievingly. “That’s it?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Derek replies shortly. “That’s it.”

Stiles and Jackson look at each other. Stiles clears his throat. “What’s going on out there? Has anything...happened?”

There’s a long pause, static coming rough and gravelly. They can hear Derek’s quiet breathing. Eventually, he just says, “Nothing you need to worry about. Just sit tight for few more days. I’ll call you again when it’s safe.”

“Yeah, well. That’s kinda what we figured you were going to do in the first place,” Jackson mutters. And then he snaps the cell shut before Derek can answer. “Fucking waste of time,” he growls, starting to pace.

Stiles shrugs, but he doesn’t disagree. He goes over to one of the armchairs and plops down heavily, watching Jackson’s movements back and forth across the room. “You wanna go out and do something?” he asks uncertainly. “Keep our minds on other stuff?”

Jackson opens his mouth, closes it. He pauses, thinking for a second, then nods. “Yeah. What the hell. Let’s go to the casino.”

They take the shuttle into town, riding along in the back car and pulling at the drawstrings of their sweatshirts as the wind comes in strong, biting at their reddened cheeks and whistling in their ears as they hold tight to the iron bars. The clusters of trees grow sparse as they progress inland, and the thin blanket of snow that spreads over the ground near the water’s edge begins to dissipate near the outskirts of the city. 

The complex is large and square, a big gray building shaved from sandstone with black tinted windowpanes on the double door entrance. It’s not much to look at from the outside, but stepping indoors, there’s a long hallway carpeted with radiant red leading up to the neon glow of the casino doors. Just outside the passageway, there’s a great totem pole, a mock-artifact of a tribesman’s relic, all wired up with green and red and blue, flashing lights in the eye sockets and glowing cords lining the grooves of the woodwork. It’s tacky in a profoundly special way.

“Shit,” Jackson says, stopping just before he opens the door. He looks at Stiles apologetically. “I forgot you don’t have a fake."

Stiles cocks his head, peering around Jackson to look through the round glass porthole in the door, watching the cloud of cigarette smoke rising above the slot machines. He shrugs. “No problem. This isn’t my kind of thing anyway.”

Jackson chews on his lower lip, expression guilty. It’s a weird look on him; he’s usually so self-assured, at least on the surface. “I’ll just be in for a little bit,” he promises. “Thirty minutes tops, I swear.”

“It’s fine.” Stiles gestures at the gift shop. “I’ll just poke around in there for a while.”

Jackson goes inside after a brief pause, and Stiles steps inside the shop.

It’s a garish sort of place, all lit up with bulbs on strings, shelves stretching from one end to the other jam-packed with trinkets and souvenirs. There are about twenty different Lake Tahoe calendars hung by hooks on the wall near the register. Picture books about the area’s history are all stacked together in the back corner; thin sleeves with large print. 

Stiles’ eye is drawn to a plastic statuette on the shelf behind the cashier’s desk. It’s a mockup of Washoe natives shaking hands with white settlers, cheap figures arrayed in a mishmash congregation around a little wooden table with a parchment and quill laid before them. 

“History preserved,” he mutters to himself.

The lady at the register looks up, hearing his mumbling. She follows his line of sight and smiles when she sees what he’s staring at. “It’s $15.50 if you’re interested,” she chirps merrily. “If you push the button on the bottom, it glows in the dark!”

Stiles blinks at her, then forces a nod of acknowledgment.

He decides to wait outside after that.

 

**XI.**

“Fucking waste,” Jackson slurs, leaning against his side on the shuttle ride back. “I only made twenty bucks.”

Stiles shifts uncomfortably, tilting his head away in preparation for any projectile vomiting. “A profit’s a profit,” he replies, going for cheerful and coming across deadpan.

Jackson makes a sort of noise between a laugh and a groan, burying his face into the crook of Stiles neck. He breathes in deep, and Stiles tenses up, foot tapping nervously on the plastic floors of the tram.

By the time they get back to the cabin and Stiles helps drag the other boy up the stairs to his bedroom, it doesn’t even come as a surprise when Jackson yanks him down on the bed, fingers fisted in the front of his shirt with a lazy forcefulness. It really should be more surprising, but it feels like a forgone conclusion.

Jackson laughs quietly, eyelids fluttering as Stiles pushes him away, gently but firmly. 

“You’re drunk,” Stiles says, and even to his own ears it sounds weak.

“Mmm...I am,” Jackson garbles agreeably, flinging his arm up to pet Stiles’ head.

Stiles swallows thickly, turning his head away. This is such a stupid idea, for too many reasons to count. “I’m going to my room,” he announces after a moment, politely waiting a few seconds for Jackson’s reply.

When he doesn’t get any, he makes a move to stand, but Jackson’s arm jerks forward, slinking around his waist and pulling him back on the bed. “Don’t go,” he murmurs sleepily, and he pulls Stiles closer still, pressing his chest into the other boy’s back, curling up together on the worn-out mattress. “Stay here.”

“You’re drunk,” Stiles says again, stronger this time, but he doesn’t make another move to leave. “You’re drunk and you’re tired, and if I stay, you’ll definitely regret it in the morning. And you’ll probably kick my ass, too. Which, to shoot straight with you, I’m not really keen on.”

Jackson buries his face against the back of Stiles neck, huffing out a muffled groan. “Don’t go,” he repeats, and Stiles takes pause at the desperation in the sound. “Don’t leave me.”

Stiles hesitates, heart hammering in his chest - and _fuck_ , Jackson can hear that, can’t he - and he rolls his eyes, slumping back in defeat. He’s taken care of drunk people before. His father, on several occasions. Scott, that one time. This isn’t different. It won’t be different. “I’m not going to leave you,” he sighs, slipping his arms out of his sweatshirt, pushing it up above his head to toss on the floor. “Just go to sleep, okay?”

His heart skips a beat when Jackson’s leg swings around to interlock with his own, the boy’s body flush against his back, heat sweltering between them. “It was an accident, you know,” Jackson says, and his voice seems somewhat clearer, still groggy but more aware. “You know that, right? It wasn’t on purpose.”

Stiles tilts his head, blinking as Jackson’s face swims in his vision. He could count all of the freckles on his nose if he wanted to. “I know that,” he agrees softly, and on impulse, he leans forward and presses his forehead briefly against Jackson’s, a nonverbal gesture of understanding. Pulling back, he says it again, “I know it was. That’s not you.”

Jackson’s throat bobs, and he turns his head into the sheets, arms still wrapped tight around Stiles’ waist, holding him in place. “I like you better as a geek,” he says out of nowhere, voice stifled slightly by his speaking into the bedspread. “I don’t like it when you’re sad.”

Stiles stares for a few seconds, stunned to silence. Not sure what to say, his brain automatically supplies, “It’ll pass. I’m just in shock, I guess. Because we killed-”

“I know!” Jackson grits out, and it’s louder now. He looks up from the bed, and his eyes are blazing yellow now, and Stiles feels a thrill of fear, instinct telling him to get out _now_. “I fucking know, alright!”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers, trying to slow his heart rate to normal pace. He brushes his hand nervously along the length of Jackson’s forearm.  “Please calm down, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry...”

The light in Jackson’s eyes dims, and his tortured expression relaxes into muted shame. He ducks his head, pushing his nose into Stiles’ chest. “I knew in the forest,” he mumbles, jumping topics yet again, perspiration dampening his forehead. “After the change. Derek’s bite. When you found me running.” He runs his hand up and down Stiles’ back, fingertips pushing in. “I knew right away, and I ignored it while I could, but now we’re fucking _here_ , and we’re alone.” He laughs, a hacking cough. “And I’m drunk, and you’re actually talking to me like I’m not a fucking asshole, and I don’t give enough of a shit to pretend that this isn’t what it fucking _is_.”

Stiles closes his eyes, balling his hands up, teeth clenching. “Jackson...” he murmurs wearily.

Jackson ignores him, turning his face to rub his cheek all the way up to Stiles’ neck. He presses his face into the space there, rocking his hips forward to run flush against Stiles’ body. “You need to stay,” he says, like it’s an irrefutable fact. “Our scents need to be one...or something. Mingle or be the same. One or the other.”

“What are you talking about?” Stiles chokes out, right on the verge of a panic attack. Because _this_? This shit doesn’t get to happen to him. There’s too much else. “What do you mean?”

“You need to stay,” Jackson slurs, and that’s not an answer at all, but he says it like it is. His eyes are fluttering faster, his limbs growing weaker, slack with drowsiness. He’s drifting off into drunken stupor. “Just to sleep.”

Stiles grits his teeth, closing his eyes. He shakes his head, hating everything about this, hating every moronic thing in his head that’s superseding his rationality and good judgment and leading him straight to the state of mind that allows him to breathe out, “Yes. Okay.”

Jackson heaves out a relieved sigh, and it’s forlorn and pathetic, and Stiles reaches up and parses his hand through the other boy’s hair, petting him nonstop until they both fall away into sleep.

 

**XII.**

The window blinds are open, and the morning light comes streaming through the trees at the crack of dawn, beaming rays down onto the mattress. They wake soon after.

Their limbs are a-tangle, arms and legs wrapped around each other, heads hooked into one another’s neck. Locked together in lazy embrace. Stiles leans back groggily, blinking in the sudden brightness, squinting through the bleariness to see Jackson watching him, already awake.

For a moment, Stiles forgets why he’s there, and he’s certain that a punch in the face is forthcoming, but Jackson just gives him a weird look before unhooking his arms and pulling away, arching his back into the mattress with a tired yawn. Stiles feels a twinge of annoyance at the loss of contact.

Jackson stands up unsteadily, groaning as he clutches his forehead. “Shit,” he mutters.

“Hangover?” Stiles pipes up pointlessly, like it isn’t obvious.

But Jackson just chuckles, probably just to indulge him. “Hurts like a bitch,” he says drily, raising an arm to sniff underneath. He winces. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Stiles nods absently, rising as well to go to his own room. Stopping in the hallway just outside his door, he pauses with his fingers hovering over the handle. “Jackson,” he calls, mouth twitching.

Jackson stops at the top of the stairs, looking back, hair a mess. “Hmm?”

Stiles swallows. “Are we going to pretend that never happened, or what?”

The silence stretches, and Stiles is beginning to wonder if maybe he’s broken some unwritten rule by bringing it up at all, then Jackson answers, “Only if you want to.”

What’s particularly striking, in that moment, is the concession of power - so very far removed from Jackson’s character. That he has the decency to let Stiles be the one to make the call...

That means something. It does.

Stiles looks away, grabbing hold of the handle, head rolling around in an uncertain motion. “No,” he admits. And it kills him to say, but it feels like a weight of his shoulders. “No, it happened.”

He can’t be entirely sure, but he thinks he sees a flash of relief in Jackson’s eyes before the boy’s expression blanks out completely. “Okay then,” Jackson says. “It happened.”

Stiles slips into the bedroom, walking slowly across the floorboards as Jackson’s footsteps clomp down the staircase. He stops at the window, sliding the glass open to poke his head outside and breathe in the fresh air. It’s cool today, not too windy, not too hot. Just the right kind of summer temperature.

The lake is bubbling with underwater life, fish swimming in schools in the shallow, reeds of green glimmering in the bright blue. It’s fucking picturesque, and it feels wrong for a day like this. For a point in time like this.

Stiles looks past the water, past the trees, eyes ahead to the mountains. The snowcaps are smaller than before, melted down to little patches here and there, smattered over the rocky peaks. 

The desert area lies out there, out near Genoa. A thrill form the mouth of wayward sparrow echoes across the way, resounding in Stiles’ ear. He steps back, closes the glass and snaps the latch shut.

He changes clothes; shorts and a red-and-black t-shirt for today. Walking out into the hall, he hears the sound of the shower running, and he pops into the study by the top of the stairs.

Poking his head through the doorway, the room is dim, shut off from the light by the shutters. The bookshelf seems to have collected a layer of dust. The desk, too. Stiles glances at the painting on the wall. Grand and colorful, even in the dark. He looks at it thoughtfully, then steps back outside.

Jackson finishes with his shower a few minutes later, coming out into the foyer with a towel slung low around his waist. Stiles is sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, and he and Jackson look at each other carefully, situated several feet apart.

Jackson looks slightly uncomfortable under the weight of Stiles’ gaze, self conscious about his nudity, but Stiles feels eerily calm. At peace, almost. 

“I think we should go camping,” he says. “Spend a night out in the desert.”

Jackson’s eyebrow arches, querying, but he doesn’t ask. “We’d have to go back into town,” he says. “Get a tent and stuff.”

Stiles shrugs. “That’s cool. I’ll chip in to pay for it.”

Jackson sucks on his tongue, thinking, expression vacant, unreadable. He nods after a minute. “Yeah, okay.” He coughs, starting for the stairs, clutching the towel tight in the front. “Give me a few minutes and we’ll go catch the next shuttle.”

“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs, staring at the pile of firewood by the hearth. There’s a little brown worm crawling up the largest log, trying to reach the top of a splintered off branch. It’s moving slowly, purposefully. Climbing up and up and up.

Stiles leans back in the chair, closing his eyes while Jackson shuffles around in his room upstairs. “Yeah,” he says again, to no one in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've lengthened this story to 4 chapters, seeing as the stuff in the desert really needs to be its own section. Will update soon!


	3. Nirvana

**I.**

The woodsman’s depot across from the town courthouse carries virtually all of the supplies they need. It’s a small shop, family owned, permeated by that thick leathery smell of boot-heel and jacket fabric. The manager is personable, shows Stiles around in the back where the shelves are stocked with lantern bulbs and camping stoves, boxes of batteries and swiss army knives stored in number.

“What about the tent?” Stiles asks, following the man around to the side wall where the long boxes hang from hooks near the rifles and shotguns. 

“What kind do you need?” the manager replies, sniffing and scratching his chin, leaning up on the counter.

“The kind with sturdy poles, I guess,” Stiles says.

The manager chuckles, gestures down to the end of the line. “I believe I have just the thing,” he says, waddling over to lift a box down.

A whirring sound catches Stiles’ attention, and he turns to see Jackson examining a high-powered nail gun, big and red with a black trigger and a cylindrical barrel. He notices Stiles looking and holds it up for him to see. “Strong winds out there,” he offers in explanation, miming shooting tent spikes into the ground. “This’ll hold everything down.”

Stiles takes it from him, looking it over with a raised eyebrow. “Badass,” he says, handing it back.

Jackson grins, walking over to salivate over the flip-knives as the manager returns, heaving the long box onto the countertop by the register. “This should do ya, son.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, checking the tag underneath by the barcode.

Particles of dust drift down from above as the ceiling fan whirs, its wooden blades creaking as the axel turns. Standing at the counter as the manager rings up the total, Stiles coughs into his sleeve, glancing at Jackson meandering down the second isle. His jeans are ripped at the knees, material frayed at the edges near the heels of his shoes, and his navy blue shirt fits snug against his body, pulling tight across his chest. His lower lip is caught between his teeth, tugged gently into his mouth, wet down by the swipe of his tongue.

Stiles looks away, swallows. “Thanks,” he says again to the manager, loading up the cart and whistling for Jackson to follow.

Out in the parking lot, they pack everything into the rental car, a battered and cheap burnt-umber Sedan. The clouds are coming in over the way, forming thick and gray above the lake in the distance. The sky in the desert, however, is clear and open.

“Is that everything?” Jackson asks as they close the trunk, lock clicking in place with a wheezy snap.

“I think so,” Stiles nods, chews the inside of his cheek. He scratches the back of his head. “I feel like we’re spending a lot.”

Jackson shrugs indifferently. “It’s mostly my parents’ money,” he says in a way that simultaneously sounds like a dismissal of the issue and an apology for his wealth.

Either way, Stiles lets it drop, stepping around to the side to sit down in the driver’s seat. “Off we go then, I guess.”

 

**II.**

****

The desert in Nevada isn’t red. It’s colorless.

The dirt, at least; the earth. The sky is alive, bright and blue, wisps of white here and there. Wildlife take flight up into the atmosphere, and there’s color on the horizon as the afternoon sun begins to descend into its nighttime grave.

The earth is what’s empty. The highway is paved slick and dark with tar and concrete, a thin stretch of blacktop roadway snaking its way over the lolling hills and pressing down across the flat ground. The grass on the side of the road is dead, light brown, dry as a bone, brittle to the touch. The withered blades snap in half silently beneath the boys’ shoes.

Towering poles of splintered wood rise up from thick bases all along the highway, starting on the outskirts of town and going on for miles and miles, far as the eye can see. They’re telephone poles, strung together with dark corded wires, pulled taught across the radiant sky like bloodless wounds of a razor’s edge. Black against the blue. Stiles cannot hear the vibrant hum of electricity along the lines, but squinting up at them in the brightness, he almost imagines that he can.

They drive off-road a short distance, parking the car in the bushes and the brambles gathered around the metallic structure of a central hub. All of the telephone lines seem to meet together at this place, and the car is hidden from the highway behind the iron beams.

Jackson pulls the straps of the camping pack firm and tight over his shoulders, the prepaid cell clipped to his belt, held in place by a thick rubber band. The tent is folded inside the bag. Stiles lugs the food pouch out of the trunk of the car, grasping it close to himself, reaching in with the other hand to grab the nail gun.

They walk in silence, travel without sound, feet tapping down on the hard ground as they descend the slope from the tower to the flat earth of the desert. The vastness stretches before them.

The metal structure will serve as a guidepost for returning to the car, but the billowing blackness in the distance, too, indicates the direction of the town, should they find themselves lost. The smokestacks of the refinery loom on the horizon near the tree line. Noxious fumes pump their way into the atmosphere with smoggy relentlessness. The gases rise into the sky and intermingle with the color there, darkening the pink and red and blue with wisps of black.

“I say we walk until it’s nearly dark,” Jackson muses aloud, perspiration already forming in beads of sweat on his forehead as they trundle along. “We’ll camp for the night, spend tomorrow doing whatever, camp again, come back the next morning.”

Stiles bobs his head, tongue coming out to lick his dry lips. “Sounds like a plan.”

The cry of a bird overhead resounds throughout the expanse of land, echoing off the mountains. It’s the sound of an eagle, Stiles thinks.

Or maybe it’s a vulture.

 

**III.**

The mountains, it seems, are nearer than they look, and by the time the sun is slipping behind the rim of the horizon, the boys have very nearly reached the base of the snowcapped range, mere hundreds of feet away from the place where the flat earth begins to ascend into the rocky mounds. The telephone tower is a mere pinprick in the distance, hardly even visible anymore.

They make camp near the only tree in sight, right in the center of a smattering of boulders. Stiles climbs the trunk to snap off loose limbs, bringing twigs and branches back to start a fire. He works at igniting it, rubbing sticks together near the pile. Jackson quickly raises the tent as the wind starts to pick up, loading up the nail gun and firing surprisingly large spikes into the ground at all four corners. Pulling the trigger, the device makes a whooshing sound, followed up swiftly by the thunk of the nails being slammed into the hard earth.

Stiles gives up on the natural method, stealing Jackson’s lighter out of his bag and spraying a little fluid onto the wood before setting it ablaze. The desert night is colder than expected, especially with the wind, and the boys huddle close around the campfire, rubbing their hands in front of the flames.

“So it happened,” Jackson says without preamble, gaze focused intently on the flickering orange as he chows down on his can of sausages, grimacing slightly at the sour taste. “We agreed that it happened.”

Stiles represses a sigh. It’s not like he wasn’t expecting this, but now they’re here, and there’s nowhere to run and hide. The trapped feeling doesn’t exactly put him at ease. He chews absently on a handful of fruit gummy treats, crinkling the wrapper in his palm. “Yeah, we agreed,” he says. “But there’s not necessarily anything more to say on the subject.”

Jackson makes a quiet, frustrated sound, and his expression darkens. “Agreeing to not talk about it is just as bad as flat-out ignoring it.” He glances up at Stiles, swallowing the bite in his mouth, and Stiles forces his eyes away from the bobbing of his throat. “I swear, Stilinski. I thought that, if anything, _you’d_ be the one to get all mushy and touchy feely, and want to talk shit out. I’m sort of freaking out here, and you’re not helping me.”

“You’re freaking out?” Stiles asks, barely masking his skepticism. “ _I’d_ have thought that _you_ would be the one to be all confident and sure of yourself about this. You are about everything else. This-” He cuts off, voice strangling itself in his chest. He clears his throat, shaking his head. “And can we stop calling it ‘this?’ And ‘it?’ I mean, really...” He rubs his forehead, tossing the gummy wrapper into the fire, watching it sizzle and blacken and turn into embers. “Can’t we just talk about it like it is?”

Jackson leans away, lying flat on his back on the ground, gazing up at the stars in the sky. His eyes glimmer in the dark, although whether from the light of the fire or from the fire _within_ , Stiles can’t be certain. “I already told you,” he whispers, and his voice sounds pained. “Last night. I said I knew in the forest. I told you that.”

Stiles runs his thumb back and forth over his mouth, thinking quietly. When Jackson doesn’t continue, he scoots around the campfire to lie down next to him, shoulders almost touching. He looks determinedly up at the twinkling specks of light above, but he can’t drown out the steady sound of Jackson’s breathing in his ears. “You were drunk,” he says, knowing it’s a copout and a meaningless argument but going there anyway.

“So fucking what?” Jackson retorts, and it’s bitter, caustic. “Like that changes anything.” Stiles tenses up, sensing rather than seeing Jackson’s head turn to face him, breath tickling his cheek with its closeness. “Why are you making me do all of the legwork here?” Jackson whispers, like he’s trying to go for angry but coming across more as helpless. “You’re not an idiot. You know what this is. How can you not?”

There’s a popping sound in the fire pit, and a cluster of sparks shoot up into the air and rain down near their feet. One lands on Stiles’ jeans, and he reaches over with his other foot to kick it away, stamping it into the ground. Laying his head back down, he sighs shakily, swallowing hard as his eyes screw shut. “Can you blame me?” he murmurs, voice small. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

Jackson’s still watching him, unmoving. He sounds as though he’s holding his breath. “What doesn’t?” he asks.

Stiles lifts a hand, twisting it pointlessly. He gestures between the two of them, still not looking. “You know. _This_.” Then, deciding to end the ambiguity, “Us. You liking me.”

Jackson makes a small noise, and he sounds exactly the way Stiles feels. He rolls over, head staring back at the sky. “Why not?” he asks after a full minute of silence. Pauses. Clears his throat. “Why doesn’t that...why can’t I like you?”

“I’m not saying you _can’t_ ,” Stiles answers slowly, carefully, still refusing to open his eyes. “I’m saying...fuck. _Damn it_. You _know_ what I’m saying.” He brings a hand up to his face, scratches at the side of his nose. “You’ve never liked me. And I’ve never really liked you. We don’t hang out in the same circles - or, rather, _you_ hang out in your circle, and I don’t have a circle. I have one friend.” A gust of cold blows through, and the flames flicker low and dark before rising up again when the chill passes. Stiles crosses his legs, tucking his hands under his armpits for warmth. “There’s no reason for this to even be a thing, Jackson. You don’t _really_ like me. You just-”

“If you say,” Jackson interrupts, grinding the words out through clenched teeth, “that I’m just confused because of...everything else, I _will_ punch you in the face.”

Stiles opens his mouth. Closes it. He blinks his eyes open, finally turning his head to look at Jackson head on. “Would I be wrong, though?” he asks, surprising himself with the nervousness in his own voice.

“Yes,” Jackson spits at him, vehement and forceful. Stiles flinches, and Jackson’s glare dematerializes, softens. “Yes,” he says again, gently. “You’d be wrong. I told you, since the forest, remember? Before all of this shit with...” He trails off, looks away. His shoulders tense, and he almost - _almost_ \- seems like he’s about to cry.

Unsure of what to say, Stiles untucks one of his hands and pats Jackson’s shoulder, running his thumb over the fabric of his shirt. “It was an accident,” he says, insistent. “You can’t keep blaming yourself for it.”

“I know,” Jackson replies, muffled by his forearm covering his mouth, sounding very much like he _doesn’t_ know.

“It was self-defense,” Stiles goes on. “He would have killed you. He would have killed _me_. You did what you had to do.”

The fire crackles, and Jackson doesn’t answer, and Stiles withdraws his hand and turns away to stare off into the darkness. Looking out at the desert.

The plains are wide and empty, patches of bushels here and there, the river basin leading riding low and empty off on the other end of the highway. The wires, mere strands at this distance, twitch and waver in the nighttime wind. Stiles thinks he can hear the howl of a coyote somewhere out there in the dark, but it might just be his imagination at work.

“It wasn’t me,” Jackson says abruptly, shaking Stiles out of his musings.

“Hmm?” Stiles queries ineloquently.

Jackson’s expression is blank, unreadable. His knees are raised up, casting his face in shadow from the light of the fire, but his eyes are glowing mildly, yellow tinge glimmering around the pupils. “The man on the news,” he clarifies tonelessly. “That wasn’t me.” His eyes flicker in Stiles’ direction, studying him for a moment, then blink away. The glowing dims. “I wasn’t the one who killed him.”

Stiles’ breath catches in his chest, and a strange sensation burns through him, bubbling up inside his stomach. It takes him a moment, but he realizes that it’s elation he’s feeling. It’s relief. “Really? he breathes, eyes wide. Jackson nods without hesitation.

“Yes,” he says. He closes his eyes, swallows. “I killed some animals. Deer, rabbits, a couple of stray cats. Maybe someone’s dog on one of the bad nights. That’s a little hazy.” He shudders, almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t kill any people, though. Except...you know.”

Stiles lets out a shaky sigh, feeling the warmth spread inside his chest. He reaches out once more, grasping Jackson’s shoulder. “That’s good,” he says, a nervous little laugh jerking out on the tail end of the words. “That’s really, really good.”

Jackson looks at him, and his eyes are glowing bright again. Stiles’ heart stops briefly, seeing the full extent of the unrestrained lust smoldering in those twin pools of light. “Does that help?” Jackson asks, and his voice is rough with need, with _want_. “Knowing that I’m not a killer?” He scoots closer, pressing himself off the ground with the palms of his hands, looming above Stiles, half of his face illuminated by the fire, the other half dark. “Do you want me now? Will you let this happen now?”

A scarlet flush rises to Stiles’ cheeks, and he coughs violently, covering his mouth with his fist. He shrinks away, eyes widening. “W-what?” he stutters.

Jackson studies him for a moment, then retreats, not bothering to mask his disappointment. “I don’t understand,” he mumbles, sitting upright, drawing his knees close to his chest. He stares unblinkingly at the campfire. “I thought you liked me,” he says. “I could smell it on you. I thought you felt the same.”

Stiles’ heart is hammering, the pulse in his neck twitching. He sits up, too. Twists himself into a cross-legged sitting style. “I-” he starts. Stops, thinks. He scratches the back of his head awkwardly. “I just...I. Jesus, Jackson...” He sighs, staring at the flames. He can see Jackson staring at him in the periphery of his vision. “I mean...of _course_ I...I- look at you, okay. Look at yourself.” He sees Jackson blink, surprised, and he turns to shoot him a withering glare. “Don’t play naive. You’re fucking _hot_ , alright? And you _know_ that. I’d be an idiot not to see that, and you _are_ an idiot if you really don’t know.” The corner of his mouth twists upward in a wry smile, in spite of himself. “And I know you know it. You use it to your advantage all the time.” He shrugs. “Not that I blame you. I’m sure I’d be cocky as hell if I looked half as good as you.”

A low rumble cuts through his ramblings, and he turns, tensing up at Jackson’s heated stare. “If you looked...” Jackson repeats, disbelieving, wondering. He cocks his head to the side, just _staring_. “You really can’t see yourself, Stiles?” he asks.

And maybe its the use of his first name, or the way Jackson says it, or just the fucking _sincerity_ of the question, the longing behind it - but whatever it is, it gives Stiles a fluttering sensation, and he actually has to duck his head away, turn his face to conceal the blush. “Damn it,” he groans, unfolding his legs so he can draw his knees up to his face and hide. “This is _such_ a bad idea, dude.”

“Why?” Jackson asks, less needy, sharper. Commanding, almost. Stiles looks up, and Jackson is _there_ , right there, about a foot away. Gazing at him, totally focused. “Why does it have to be?

Stiles jolts away, stands up, hands shaking as he dusts off his knees. “Think about this,” he says, watching as Jackson rises as well, still staring. “You and I...we’re _completely_ different people. Like polar opposites, basically. Whatever this is...it’s just biology or something. Werewolf pheromones, mating instinct, whatever. I’m serious, you don’t _actually_ like me-”

Jackson _growls_ , and he grabs Stiles by the shoulders, claws popping out partway to cut through the fabric of he sleeves, digging into the skin. “Don’t tell me what’s in my own head, Stilinski,” he says dangerously, reverting back to Stiles’ surname. “I know what I want.”

“O-okay,” Stiles stutters, breathing shallow with fear, eyes screwed up in pain at the prickling of Jackson’s claws. He swallows thickly, looking down at his shoulder where tiny droplets of red are beginning to bleed through his shirt. “Please don’t hurt me...”

The growling cuts off immediately, and the claws retract soon after. Jackson backs away, eyes no longer glowing, expression guilty. He ducks his head, glaring daggers at the ground. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles runs a hand through his short-cropped hair, takes in a gulp of fresh air. “We might need to work on your anger issues, buddy,” he says, trying for a lighthearted tone and failing miserably.

Jackson doesn’t seem offended, however. If anything, he seems more frustrated with himself, his teeth coming down to bite hard on his lower lip. His canines split the sensitive skin and he winces, relaxing his jaw. The cuts heal within seconds. “I know,” he mutters, kicking a small rock, sending it skidding off into the dark. “You’re right, I know.” He glowers, brooding silently. 

The quiet stretches, beginning to feel uncomfortable, and Stiles coughs awkwardly to break the tension. “Jackson?” he asks timidly.

Jackson’s expression softens, and he looks up wearily. “I don’t want to submit,” he says, gaze level, even. “I don’t want to be Derek’s subordinate.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, unsure of how they got on this subject. He nods slowly. “Okay...”

Jackson’s jaw twitches. He scratches his cheek, eyes blinking unfocused. “I can’t play second fiddle,” he mutters, more to himself than to Stiles. “That’s not me.”

“I...” Stiles tilts his head, eyebrows knitting together. “I told you, it’s not about that. It’s not about being better than each other, or pack status or rankings, or anything like that. It’s not supposed to be, at least. It’s about taking care of each other.” He shuffles his feet. “Does that not make sense?”

“It’s always about being the best,” Jackson replies readily, closed off and stubborn. “I already have a family. I don’t need another one.”

Stiles stifles a groan, glaring at the other boy. “Why is it so important to you to assert your superiority over others? Does it give you some sort of sick thrill?”

Jackson blinks. “No,” he says, flat and calm. “But if I’m not the best, then I have nothing to set me apart from everybody else.” He waves an arm vaguely in Stiles’ direction. “Sure, you’re a loser by most standards of people our age, but so what? You’re funny and clever, and you’ve got the kind of drive that people are going to admire once you go out into the real world. High school isn’t going to last forever. You’re not popular now, and maybe you never will be, but you’re going to do great things. McCall too, probably. And Allison.” His mouth quirks upward, a soft, bitter chuckle rumbling in his chest. “And Lydia. Who’s only stupid in the sense that she really, truly believes no one else can see how fucking smart she is.” He looks up, taking in Stiles’ dumbfounded expression. “You all have it made. Me? I’m just another jock with a pretty face and a good throwing arm.” He shrugs. “So no, Stiles. Taking care of each other, being part of some sort of werewolf family? I don’t really give a shit about any of that. I have to be the best. Because if I’m not, then...”

He trails off, dropping his gaze.

Stiles stares at him. The campfire is beginning to die down, embers glowing hot beneath the charred ashes of the flame-licked branches. “That’s not true,” he says softly. “You’re worth more than that.”

Jackson’s head twitches irritably, and he looks up with tired eyes. “Maybe it’s biology,” he says, voice strained with grudging agreement. “Maybe it’s a ‘werewolf thing,’ as you put it. But regardless of the reason, I have feelings for you. Okay? That’s the fucking deal.” He shifts, stepping closer, and this time, Stiles doesn’t flinch away. “You’re probably right that I never would have gone for you if my wolf wasn’t pushing me to try, but I don’t see how that matters. You _are_ a good guy, even if we’re painfully different people. And you _are_ sexy, even if you’re too self-critical to see it.” 

He’s so near, right up in Stiles’ space, and Stiles is so sure that he’s going to close that distance, push in to seal their mouths together. But he doesn’t. He backs away, turns, walks over to the tent to unzip the entrance.

“You would be good for me,” Jackson continues, and there’s something raw in his voice, something desperate. He works at the zipper, clambering inside through the opening. “And I already know that you want me. I can see it, I can _smell_ it. And you basically just fucking admitted it.” He pauses halfway through closing the tent door, looks at Stiles. “If you really think I’m worth something, why am I not worth this?” he asks. 

And then he’s gone.

Stiles shivers as the wind whips against his skin, and he rubs up and down the length of his arms, standing beside the fire until the faint glow of the embers in the pit disappears into smoke and he’s left alone in the dark. The coyote howls from far away, and this time he knows it’s not just in his head.

He slips inside the tent after some time, moving quietly to get inside his sleeping bag. Jackson is already asleep, chest rising and falling with each breath, air whistling quietly through his nose. Stiles settles down in the cocoon of fabric, curling his knees up to his chest. He buries his face down into the soft camping pillow, shutting his eyes against the world.

Jackson’s breathing is like white noise. Stiles listens to the sound until he falls asleep.

 

**IV.**

The morning sun blazes down with a vengeance. The disquieting heat of the sky offsets the brittle chill of the turbulent desert winds. The campsite, set up in the circle of boulders near the base of the mountain range, is hammered down on hard ground and dry grass. The stretch of sand lies further out into the wild.

Stiles munches on an energy bar, pulling off his jacket to toss on a nearby rock as he watches a bird pecking at the dirt in a cluster of yellow flowers. He hears a rustling from behind and turns to see Jackson emerging from the tent, yawning and squinting sleepily at the cell in his hands. Their eyes meet, and Stiles raises an eyebrow in question. Jackson shakes his head.

“No calls,” he says. “No messages.”

As if by wordless agreement, they spend most of the morning in unbroken silence. It’s very much like that first day out on the lake, except far more uncomfortable. Stiles tries to read for a while, leaning up against a boulder with his knees supporting his weight, but the light from above beams hard and harsh off the white pages, blinding his eyes and giving him a headache. Jackson plays with a stick, sharpening it into a spear with the pocketknife he bought from the store in town. Just for kicks.

The silence is unbearable, and after scarfing down a quick lunch, Stiles loudly announces that he’s going for a walk. He doesn’t get a response.

Nevada’s actually very beautiful, Stiles thinks, and if this were an actual vacation, he’d probably really love being here. As things stand, however, he feels trapped in some sort of existential hell. Nowhere to run from his thoughts, all alone in the vast wilderness with the very person he wants to get off his mind.

Not wanting to lose his way in the emptiness of the desert, he opts instead to trudge up the path to the pass in between the two nearest mountains. It’s a short climb to the plateau, and from the top he can see Jackson pacing around the campsite, a mere dark speck against the ground below. Lifting his gaze to peer off towards the horizon, he can see the telephone poles rising up from the earth like great wooden gods surveying their domain. At this distance, the wires stretched between them aren’t even visible. Only the poles, as well as the metallic structure somewhat closer. The hood of the car glints in the sunlight, poking out from behind the bushes.

The mountain path leads to what feels like another world. There’s snow up here, unmindful of the fact that it’s summer, and the wind carries flakes of white down from the whitecaps above to rain down gently. Stiles can open his mouth and taste the sweet watery flavor on his tongue. It’s summer and the sky is bright, and it’s _snowing_ up here in the canyon between the gargantuan peaks, and it’s a place entirely separate from the heat and the dryness below.

As he presses further into the canyon, the surprise winter world grows only more fanciful. The constant trickle of tiny snowflake particles stings at his eyes, but he doesn’t care, too busy observing the wonder around him.

A pair of mountain goats are climbing the impossibly steep slope off to the left, their hooves digging down hard into the mound of pebbles, legs straining as they ascend. The smaller one stumbles, and Stiles thinks for a moment that it will fall, coming down to tumble to its death. But it regains its footing, slowly, shakily pulling itself up to full height to continue its climb. The larger one, silently patient throughout the smaller’s struggles, brays in encouragement, hooves kicking harder, quicker, stepping up past its fellow to reach the rim above. Once at the top, it waits once more, glancing down and making trilling noises as the other, too, pulls itself over the edge and heaves its body onto the plateau. Stiles watches as they take pause, just for a moment, then trot off out of sight into the snowy fields beyond the rim.

The earth up here is empty and barren, but Stiles catches sight of a small patch of wildflowers growing in the midst of a slate of ice. He wonders at the color; radiantly viridian, offset with a splashing of yellow along the stem. He’s never seen anything quite like that before.

From higher up, the wind is shrieking, howling, and Stiles can hear the echo reverberating in the enclosure of rock and snow. Another sound catches his attention: a rhythmic, metronomic tapping. And he cocks his head to the side, listening intently as it grows nearer and nearer still.

It’s closer now, and his gaze drops from staring at the peaks to squinting through the snowflakes further into the canyon. The sound pauses, and Stiles thinks that maybe his ears were playing tricks on him.

And then it starts up again, and he recognizes the tapping. Footsteps.

From around the bend, a man comes walking, lumbering at an ungainly pace, dragging one leg along like it’s wounded. He’s about a hundred yards away, and Stiles can’t quite make out his face, so he cups his hands around his eyes and peers into the whiteness.

The man stops. Raises his head.

His clothes are tattered, torn, but with no sign of blood or cuts of any sort. His garb and his skin are painted black, sticky with tar or oil, or some such thick substance. From his neckline to his ragtag shoes, he’s black as the night, and tiny specks of goo are starting to drip from his sleeves onto the snow beneath him.

His face is concealed by a yellowish-white gas mask, strapped to fit his skull like a glove. The mouth is covered by a large disc for oxygen, complete with a thick tube leading up over his shoulder and out of sight. The twin portholes for eyes are dark, impossible to see through. They stare, blankly, unmoving.

Watching.

Stiles feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he drops his arms down to his side. Not daring to move, he calls out, tentatively. “Hello?”

No answer. The man stands still, absolutely rigid. Just stares, leg bent at an awkward angle as particles of white drift down to land on the empty eyeholes of the gas mask.

Shifting his weight backwards, stomach starting to cramp up with nervousness, Stiles tries again. “Hello? Do you live here?” The whistling of the wind in the canyon dampens to a dull roar. It’s seemingly imperceptible now.

The gas mask man watches on.

Stiles feels a thrill of fear and he begins to back away, steady and slow. There’s a ringing in his ears, a static sound, and the only real noise that cuts through the thrum is the crunching of his shoes against the brittle ground. The squashing of his heels coming down to dirty the white snow with his footprints as he retreats.

He rounds the corner, still backing away, not daring to turn and run. The gas mask man stands rigid as ever, stiff as a statue. Watching without words. As Stiles moves back around the bend, passing the patch of viridian wildflowers, the figure disappears behind the mound of rocks, and Stiles _then_ feels secure enough to turn and flee, heartbeat hard and fast in his ears as he runs, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds.

The man does not follow immediately, and Stiles doesn’t wait to find out if he plans to.

The canyon maw opens up into the brightness of the desert, and Stiles’ pace slows as he reaches the rim of the slope above the campsite. He glances back once more, breathing finally coming easier as he becomes more certain of his safety. A crooked winged bird caws harshly from an overlook up ahead, takes flight from its perch to swoop in low over the plains, its shadow appearing faint on the dry grass. Stiles can see the wind blowing sand about in twisted formations over near the highway, specks of dirt and grain billowing in tiny clouds near the towering telephone poles.

Dusting the flakes and particles off his shoulders, he exits the winter world and descends the mountain to return to the place he left behind.

 

**V.**

It’s hotter than ever before back at camp, and the haze of heat waves shimmers, visible to the naked eye. The air is thick, sweltering, and Stiles rolls his sleeves up to his shoulders, opening his book to fan himself.

Jackson is pacing still, shirt thrown over his shoulder like it’s a dust rag, stained with sweat. The muscles in his back flex with every movement, and Stiles finds himself mesmerized by the patterns and the lines. He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. It’s the heat. Just the heat.

The river basin on the other side of the highway is running drier than earlier, if that’s at all possible, and Stiles wonders vaguely where the water life goes during times of drought. Where do the animals hide away when their home disappears?

Or perhaps there are no creatures in this river. Perhaps they all take refuge in the safety of the lake.

Maybe there’s no life out here at all.

“I scored these at the casino,” Jackson announces, apropos of nothing. Squinting off at a smattering of thorn bushes where a baby coyote is playing, he reaches into his back pants pocket and tosses a plastic baggie at Stiles.

It lands in his lap, and he looks down, lifts it up. There are two strips of blotter paper, square and bright white with the tan insignia of a scorpion drawn on. Stiles frowns, holding the bag up to the light for a better look. “What are they?” he asks.

“It’s LSD,” Jackson says, like he’s all knowledgable about such things, like it’s obvious. “You put them on your tongue,” he explains, sticking his own out, pointing at it with his index finger.

“You bought LSD?” Stiles queries, noting that he doesn’t sound half as surprised as he ought to. He’s probably just numb to Jackson’s insanity at this point.

“Won,” Jackson corrects. “Won, not bought.” He places his hands on his hips, sucking in a sharp breath, and Stiles firmly ignores the way his stomach flip flops at the way Jackson’s abdominal muscles visibly tense and relax.

“Won then,” Stiles agrees, setting the packet down beside him on the rock. He blinks at.

Jackson stares at him thoughtfully, a slow smirk spreading across his face. He waggles his eyebrows. “Wanna get high with me?” he asks, and it’s the first time he’s sounded like his old arrogant self since before the whole werewolf mess. “What do you say?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but he can’t repress the goofy grin he feels coming on. He ducks his face to hide it, but judging by Jackson’s chuckle, the gesture is a wasted effort. “Not really my thing, dude?”

“Don’t be a pussy,” Jackson scoffs. Stiles looks up, glares at him, and Jackson’s hard look wilts, melting into something gentler. “Come on,” he says. “It’ll be fun. New experiences and all that.”

Stiles sighs, glances back at the bag. The twin scorpions glare up at him from the white squares, stingers raised threateningly. 

It’s not the sort of thing he’s ever considered, ever seriously been interested in. And even if he were to hear the siren’s call of curiosity, he’d be smart enough to do something like this with a sober friend. In a house, or some other secure environment. Certainly not in the middle of the desert with Jackson fucking Whittemore.

Except he _isn’t_ smart, apparently. Because he lifts the bag up again, turning it over in his hand before tossing it back and bobbing his head in assent. “Yeah okay,” he says, nonchalant. “Let’s do it.”

Jackson beams, genuinely thrilled, and fuck if _that_ isn’t a sign that this is the worst idea in the world.

But Stiles’ common sense seems to have been overridden by the thrill of the moment, and he finds himself nodding in agreement as Jackson suggests that they wait until sunset to get a better view for the trip.

The baby coyote off beside the thorn bush is chewing on a tiny rodent, its teeth stained red with the little animal’s blood and guts.

It looks pleased with itself.

 

**VI.**

****

There’s a fissure in the air, running straight down from the seam of the clouds to the base of the earth, a thin line of light and color and atmospheric pressure. And Stiles knows that if he were to reach out and touch it, he could peel back the sky and revel in all the wonder of the universe laid out before him.

There’s wetness on his arm, and he looks down to see the source, finding that it’s only sweat. This, Stiles thinks, is curious for many reasons, not least of all because the sun has long since ceased to cast its radiant shine down upon the boys’ campsite, and also because Stiles’ skin hasn’t felt hot for nearly three hours now. Or at least it feels that way.

It’s a single trail of sweat, one salty bead, trailing down the soft hairs on his forearm and pooling together with the moisture in his palm, pressed flat against the dusty ground.

Jackson makes a soft noise of admiration beside him, and Stiles hums in concurrence.

It’s all so very beautiful, the whole damn spectacle of existence. The clouds forming in the mountain range are dark and thunderous and frizzling with energy, but their rage is separate from the rest of the beauty, set apart from the silence of the desert. The skies here are calm and still, stars connected in harmony in their heavenly cradle. The moonbeams illuminate the earth, casting the world in an aura of perfect symmetry and balance.

“This is how it _is_ ,” Stiles says, broadcasting his thoughts without filter. Jackson garbles something unintelligible, head bobbing back and forth on his neck in constant agreement. “This is how it should be everywhere.”

“This _is_ how it is everywhere,” Jackson says, and his voice is airy, light and peaceful in a manner so very unlike him. “No one looks to see, though, so everywhere else seems like something different. But it’s all the same, it’s all together. You just have to look.” His legs stretch out before him, hands planted behind his back as he leans his weight on the rigid line of his arms, head tilted to gaze up at the sky. “It’s easier to see out here, though. I’ll give you that.”

Stiles clutches his knees to his chest, rocking to and fro in gentle rhythm, short-cropped hair all sticking out at different angles. “Derek will call,” he says. “Soon. The day after tomorrow, maybe.”

Jackson blinks, wetness stinging at his eyes. He rubs it away. “I wondered if I’d be able to see him in the sky,” he sing-song speaks. “With the drugs in my system. And I thought if I could see him, I could apologize for killing him.” He looks around absently, and Stiles slowly registers that he’s not talking about Derek. “I can’t see him, though. He’s not here anymore. He’s gone.”

Stiles stands, his body moving freely as if controlled by the will of another host, of another master. He’s unafraid, however, and he allows himself to be pulled along in a circle around the fire pit, eyes wide and open as he gazes around the wild, taking in everything. All things. “He lives up there,” he muses, turning his head to the mountain pass up the slope, eyebrows knitting together in concentration. “But he lives down here, too.” He closes his eyes, swallowing hard as a bead of perspiration drips between his eyes, running down the bridge of his nose and falling off the tip to the dirt below. “He’ll never die. Never, ever die.” His feet begin to shuffle, an arrhythmic little dance to a tune in his own mind. “The rest of us will, though. And life will go on.”

Jackson rises to his feet, and his knees look unsteady, but his face is lax with bliss, quiet peace. His eyes are bright, but not with the fury of the beast within. Alive instead with another internal fire. “You’re dancing,” he observes, hand rubbing at the hem of his shirt, feeling the softness of the fabric there.

“I am,” Stiles agrees. “You should, too.”

Jackson does, and it’s frenetic, jerky, and he kicks up clouds of dust around his feet. The fire crackles, charcoal hot and black beneath the crumbling wood. The wind rustles the walls of the nearby tent, held down firm by the spikes shot deep into the ground.

The baby coyote from earlier - and Stiles know it is the same as before - comes wandering into the glow, creeping closer, eyes wide and curious. It sniffs the pouch stuffed with food and it bares its teeth, snapping down and trying to rip the damn thing open. Jackson whistles as he dances, and he reaches down to swoop up the nail gun from its resting place on a egg-shaped boulder. He flicks it on and fires a few rounds at the animal, not close enough to kill it or cause it harm. Just enough to give it scare. The nails clink down near the coyote’s feet, and it yelps in panic, dashing away with a whimper.

Jackson laughs gleefully, and he stumbles in his dance, tripping and falling to the earth. He winces as the dust flies up around him, but his smile does not fade. His shoulders shake quietly, and he lets go of the nail gun, leaving it lying aside as he folds his hands over his stomach and gazes up at the stars.

Stiles hears the roll of thunder, and he looks up at the mountains to pay mind to to the sound. There’s a flash of lightening, a single bolt, and it strikes down upon the highest peak. And Stiles can see the perfect cap of snow shatter as chunks of white slide down into the canyons and the ravines, bits of matter descending the steep incline into oblivion.

He feels his throat close up for a moment, and then a loud laugh erupts from deep inside, coming out as a hacking cough. His shoulders shake with silent mirth, and his voice wheezes as he tries to steady himself. There are tears rolling down his cheeks in steady streams, and his mouth feels like it’s going to split from the wideness of his grin.

“I get it,” he whispers, awestruck. The darkness comes alive for a single moment as another flash ignites the sky, and the deafening boom is soon to follow. Rain begins to fall, hard and heavy and perfect in its cleansing touch. “I get it!” Stiles shouts, raising his arms above his head, a strangled laugh rising up as the water pours down upon him, drenching him to the bone.

The wind stills and an empty patch of sky passes overhead in the midst of the storm, and for the briefest of moments, all the world is silent.

 

**VII.**

****

He’s groggy in the morning, and if the dark circles around Jackson’s eyes are any indication of Stiles’ own appearance, he probably looks like shit.

The food pack is nearly empty, and they have to resort to forcing down stale crackers and fruit gummies for breakfast. Jackson grumbles as he prods the still smoldering fire pit with a twisted stick. Thin wisps of smoke rise up from the epicenter, and he coughs as the pungent scent reaches his nostrils. 

Stiles’ teeth crunch down on the crackers and he watches absently as Jackson chews his fruit snacks, staring at the curve of the boy’s mouth. His lips are dusted dark with residue of the earth, but the redness is still visible beneath it all.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by the sound of Jackson’s voice. He shakes his head, blinking. “Come again?” he asks.

Jackson gives him a funny look. “I said, what did you mean last night? When you said ‘I get it.’ You were laughing. And crying.” His eyes are round and open, and Stiles tries not to stare because he’s starting to think that he could drown in those twin pools. “What did you mean?”

Stiles doesn’t respond for a moment, licks the residue of crumbs off the corner of his mouth. He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I forgot.”

It takes considerably less time to tear down camp than it did to set everything up. They gather their things together and roll the tent up into its bag, leaving the rusted spikes lying in a small pile with the charred remains of the wood in the fire pit. Stiles takes the large pack this time, leaving Jackson to lug along the food pouch and the nail gun. Walking back across the desert, he realizes that he left his book sitting atop the boulder by the tree, but it’s too late now to turn back. They leave it behind. 

The air is cooler today, less of that summer feeling, more brittle and crisp. The clouds block out the sun, and the swelling path of the overhead shadow darkens their return to the car parked beneath the metallic structure by the road.

The windshield of the car has collected considerable dust, and Jackson moves to brush the window clean, squirting wiper fluid and wetting the curved surface. Stiles sits dazedly in the passenger’s seat, watching as a faint rainbow forms outside, shimmering through the dripping liquid.

Jackson plops down heavily in front of the steering wheel, pausing before turning the key in the ignition to rub his eyes with the back of his hands. He yawns shakily. “That was...not what I expected,” he says, not really demanding a reaction but pausing for one nonetheless.

Stiles nods, neck weirdly sore and strained. He stops the meaningless motion, tilting his head to look at the other boy. “What did you expect it to be like?” he asks, voice croaky.

He clears his throat as Jackson thinks, a smudge of dirt coloring his cheekbone. “I don’t know,” Jackson admits after a moment, mouth working its way into an exhausted smile. “Just - not that, I guess.”

Stiles smiles, too. He leans back, pushing the seat into recline and closing his eyes. “Let’s go,” he says.

The drive back to the cabin feels like reentering a world forgotten in the wake of the past couple of days. The smokestacks of the refinery loom closer as they draw near to the town, and Stiles blinks away sleep as they pass by the factory gates, watching as the workers gather in line with their orange hardhats and hammers and gloves. The soil here is richer, more vibrant than out beyond the green. The grass here grows thick and full, and the scent of pine blows in through the air conditioning unit of the car as they pull up to the rental lot.

They take pause before handing over the keys, quietly debating whether or not to take the camping supplies with them.

In the end, Jackson shrugs and says, “Fuck it. I don’t think I’ll ever use them again.”

They shut the trunk and toss the keys to the man with the clipboard, and they walk away down towards the woodland path, hands shoved in their pockets. Stiles glances back and sees the reflection of the nail gun in the side view mirror, sitting in the backseat, empty.

The sun is starting to peek through the clouds.

 

**VIII.**

****

It’s midday, and as cool as it is out on the lake, the air in the cabin is heated, stifling.

“Should have left the windows open,” Jackson grumbles, taking the stairs two at a time, popping into his room without another word. Stiles can hear him rustling around in there.

His own bedroom is impossibly stuffy, and he cracks the window to breathe in the fresh air. He gazes out at the still waters, watching as a family of ducks swims along the shoreline.

There’s a small rectangular business card gathering dust on the beside table next to the lamp. Brenda’s cell and office numbers are printed near the bottom in bold black ink.

Stiles’ heart is thumping in his chest, and he considers calling her, just to talk things out, clear his head before diving in. But something’s settled deep within him, and he knows with a frightening finality that he’s already made up his mind. He holds the card in his hand, runs his thumb over the edges.

He sets it down and takes a long breath. It’s too hot in the bedroom, he decides. It isn’t suitable. 

The bed’s mattress is surprisingly light, and he finds that he can lift it with ease. It folds in half as he carries it through the doorway, and he takes just a moment to glance over the banister before pushing it over the edge.

It falls to the ground with a resounding thump, unfurling and smacking against the hardwood next to the couch. Slanted at a diagonal angle, it’s out in the open, laid bare in the living room. Ready.

The door to the left creaks open, and Jackson pokes his head out, brow furrowed, eyes bewildered. He follows Stiles’ line of sight and cranes his head over the railing, staring at the mattress below. He looks at Stiles, tilts his head like a lost dog.

Stiles’ mouth twitches upward and, ignoring the sudden burst of nervousness inside his chest, he extends his hand, palm up. “It’s too hot in the bedroom,” he offers in explanation.

The color drains out of Jackson’s face, eyes widening in understanding. He swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. “Are you sure?” he asks quietly after a tense pause.

Stiles shakes his head. “No,” he says honestly, but he doesn’t withdraw his hand.

Jackson stares at it for a solid minute before reaching out his own and interlocking his fingers with Stiles’. “Lead on, I guess,” he says, and the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his voice serves as a calming effect. Just knowing that he’s not alone in his fear gives Stiles the extra push to squeeze Jackson’s hand tight and drag him along down the staircase to the makeshift bedroom below.

The mattress isn’t nearly firm enough, and Stiles sinks down into it as he lies flat on his back. The rough sheets scratch at the nape of his neck, and he feels his face grow flushed with heat as Jackson looms above him, hands placed on either side of his head, framing his body.

“Jesus,” Jackson mutters lowly, his eyes flickering up and down, studying Stiles with the thoroughness of a doctor. “Your heart’s racing a mile a minute.” He lifts a hand to tap his ear. “I can hear it.”

“I know,” Stiles says, looking anywhere but Jackson, tensing up, trying to breathe steadily. “I can’t help it.”

Jackson’s hand comes down to rest on his thigh, and for a horrifying moment, Stiles thinks that he’s actually going to start _there_ \- but then the hand just moves up and down his leg in a soothing motion, a quiet pattern. “You’re going to have to relax if this is going to work,” Jackson says, unusually gentle. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” Stiles says again, even though he _doesn’t_ know, and that’s precisely why this is so fucking scary. He closes his eyes, throat tightening up. His chest heaves.

Jackson makes an unhappy noise, and his hand leaves Stiles’ leg and comes up to rest against his cheek, thumb rubbing circles there. “Talk to me,” he says. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Stiles opens his eyes, stares up at him. He swallows hard. “I’m afraid you’re going to break my heart,” he answers, point blank and honest, and he winces immediately afterward. Because, seriously, when did he become an overly emotional little girl?

But Jackson doesn’t jump on the opportunity to mock. His expression turns blank for a moment, goes slack with surprise, then softens into something fond. He leans down to kiss Stiles’ forehead, and Stiles’ breath hitches in his chest. “I swear I won’t. It won’t be like that.”

And Stiles wants to believe him, wants to believe it so badly.

And so he does.

He nods, eyes fluttering, painfully aware of their close proximity. The tightness in his chest is beginning to loosen. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Alright.”

Jackson pauses briefly, gauging his reaction, then presses in all the way, covering Stiles’ mouth with his own.

It’s hard in the way Stiles always imagined it would be - the way he’d envisioned it in those fleeting moments now and again when he’d allowed himself to entertain such wistful fantasies - and it’s rough and sloppy and such a fucking _turn on_ in the way that his kiss with Lydia had been anything but. It’s bruising and punishing, and Jackson’s tongue is inside his mouth, running over his teeth, licking and seeking further and deeper. His hand is still on Stiles’ cheek, and they stay frozen like that for several minutes, just living in the moment of that first kiss.

When, at last, Jackson pulls away, Stiles blinks up at him, staring at the boy’s mouth, the way it’s red and raw, feeling a surge of heat knowing that his own must look the same. “Okay,” he says again, rough this time instead of scared. “Alright.”

He takes charge, fingers fisting in Jackson’s hair and pulling him down for more. And that’s apparently all the encouragement Jackson needs, because now his fingers are working at the zipper of Stiles’ pants, panting hot and heavy into his mouth, a needy sound. His legs are pressing down hard into the mattress, hips jerking forward in spasmodic motions, desperate herky-jerky movements in an attempt to get off.

Jackson moves down lower, latching his mouth onto Stiles’ neck, and Stiles can’t stop the embarrassing moan brought on by the heat and the wetness of Jackson’s tongue against his skin. He cants his hips upward, fears quickly fading in the face of arousal, and his hands stop lying uselessly at his side, coming up to grip at Jackson’s biceps, holding tight.

He hears a growl, low and excited, and Jackson fucking _bites_ him, right on the neck. It doesn’t pierce the flesh, doesn’t draw any blood, but it’s hard and bruising, and Stiles yelps, twitching in pain even as his cock responds appreciatively to the action. Jackson stretches back, eyes wide and pupils dilated, trademark cocky smirk in place as he examines his handiwork. 

“Mine,” he hisses, husky and dangerous, and he presses forward to catch Stiles’ lower lip in between his teeth, chuckling darkly at the whimper he elicits, thrusting his hips forward to meet Stiles’ likewise movements. “Fucking mine,” he says again, a statement of fact, laying claim.

“I - fuck. Yeah, shit. Okay. I’d fucking say so. Jesus,” Stiles stammers, babbling meaninglessly.

Jackson’s hands snake under his shirt, callused skin hot against his flesh, and Stiles suddenly feels like they’re both wearing way too much clothing at this point. He rolls up into a sitting position, allowing Jackson to reach around and peel his shirt up over his head from the back, tossing it aside and pushing him back down onto the mattress. Jackson rips his own shirt off, a quick, impatient movement, and Stiles has a brief moment of insecurity, staring at Jackson’s chest unabashedly.

“None of that,” Jackson says, as if reading his mind, and he scoots down low to run his tongue along the flat expanse of Stiles’ stomach, hands gripping the boy’s shoulders hard and fast, pinning him in place. “None of that self-doubt.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, voice raising to a squeak as Jackson starts tugging at his pants, pulling them down around his ankles.

This is the last place he ever expected to be, so far removed from the plans he had for his life.

But here they are nonetheless, and they’re naked and sweating, and Jackson’s fingers are working inside him, mouth wrapped around his cock, and he’s arching up into it, gasping and swearing and very nearly on the verge of sobbing. They both smell of earth and clay, both taste of the desert, and it should be gross, it really ought to. But instead, it’s somehow everything he ever wanted, and Jackson’s name falls from his lips again and again like a mantra, and he doesn’t even really feel too embarrassed about it. And he sees white when he reaches climax, coming down from the high moments later, shuddering with heat. 

His skin breaks out in goosebumps, and his vision clears as Jackson slinks up to bury his face in the crook of his neck, humming low and satisfied. And they stay like that for a short while as the afternoon begins to settle in.

And then they start up all over again.

 

**IX.**

The next day feels as though it’s been stolen from the pages of someone else’s life. Stiles muses absently that this is exactly what they should have been doing the whole time.

They wake together curled up on the mattress, sheets soiled and forgotten on the floor nearby. They’re sticky and smell of sex, and having forgone last night’s meal for another few rounds in the sack, their stomachs ache with hunger as they rise up shakily to their feet.

Stiles drags Jackson with him into the shower, and they stand under the stream together, cleaning themselves off and trading lazy kisses until the water runs cold. It’s the sort of intimate moment Stiles once imagined himself sharing with Lydia but isn’t disappointed now that he’s here with someone else. Jackson’s healing abilities keep him vigorous, fresh, and he has to be reminded once or twice that Stiles doesn’t share his strength - he’s sore and weary, fucked raw.

They whip up a hearty breakfast in the kitchen afterwards, pancakes and waffles and bacon thawed out from the freezer. (“When did you buy all of this?” Stiles asks, bewildered. Jackson just smiles cryptically.) There’s no morning after regret, nor do they hold hands and take a long walk to discuss their feelings. All things considered, they’re still just _guys_ , and after they’re finished eating, they pull out the dartboard from the hall closet and play a few rounds until the food has settled in their stomachs. Then they go out to the lake for a swim.

The water is still, and it looks more like glass than liquid, reflecting the sky above in its brilliant blueness. The boys drift along on their backs, treading water and looking at the wispy clouds above, hands trailing close together in the cold. Their bodies float on the surface, suspended in perfect calm between the atmosphere and the deep.

Jackson’s foot dips under the water and comes up to splash playfully near Stiles’ leg. Stiles responds in kind, and Jackson turns over to duck him underneath the waves. They stay out until the day wears thin and the sun begins its descent beyond the hills.

They cook out hot dogs on the grill on the side, talking about everything and nothing as the charcoal scent permeates the air and the juices of the meat sizzle, dripping down through the grate. They take their food around the way on paper plates and sit out on the veranda swing to eat and drink. 

The sunset doesn’t seem so sad tonight.

Going inside after dark, Jackson checks the cell and pauses on the bottom step of the staircase. He turns to Stiles, holding up the phone, indicating the screen. 

“Message,” he says. “Derek called.” He leans against the railing, looking thoughtfully at his feet. “We can go home now.”

 

**X.**

Stiles pats the mattress down, setting it back in place in the cradle of the bed frame. He lifts Brenda’s card from the table and folds it into his wallet.

He pulls the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder and flicks the lamplight off, glancing up at the antler’s above the headboard that loom out in the dark.

Jackson is waiting for him downstairs by the kitchen counter, already packed, bag lying at his feet. He lifts it up when he sees Stiles coming. Nods. It’s cool today, and he’s wearing a bright blue sweater, tight fitting, complimentary to his form. It suits him, Stiles thinks.

They didn’t bring much with them and they’re not taking much back, but the place feels strangely empty nonetheless. There’s a certain sadness in leaving, in saying goodbye. Maybe it’s the knowledge that they’ll probably never come back here again.

Communicating silently with their eyes, Stiles nods and gestures at the door, and they step forward together. They reach out for the doorknob at the same time, hands brushing together, Stiles’ underneath.

Stiles grasps hold of the metal, unmoving for a second or two. Jackson’s hand rests atop his, a silent touch. They stay like that for bit.

Then Jackson pulls away, and Stiles opens the door for him. Jackson steps out and Stiles follows. They shut the door together.

In the corner of the cabin, on top of the pile of still-unused firewood, a worm is crawling down the logs, inching along towards the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go. Will update this week.


	4. Nowhereland

**I.**

****

The rubber of the tires squelches on the mud and gravel as the car slows to a halt in Derek’s driveway. The dark haired werewolf is waiting for them by the front steps of the porch, arms folded across his black shirt and jacket, face arranged into his standard scowl. It’s late in the day, and the sun is settling down behind the trees. Standing here again, Stiles feels, strangely, like no time has past since they left.

Derek looks tired, drained in a way Stiles can’t remember ever seeing him before. He reaches into his back pants pocket and pulls out their cell phones.

“It’s finished,” he says shortly, handing them over. “Hunters will always be a threat to our kind, so I can’t promise absolute safety. But as far as this...incident is concerned, there’s nothing left to worry about. It’s over.”

He turns to march up the steps, and Stiles and Jackson exchange a quick glance. Stiles clears his throat. “That’s it?” he inquires. “You’re not going to tell us what happened? How you took care of it?”

“Come on,” Jackson pipes up, ignoring Stiles’ look of warning, “We have a right to know-” He cuts off abruptly at Derek’s murderous glare, dropping his gaze to stare at his shoes.

“What’s done is done,” Derek grits out, low and dangerous. “You don’t need to know.” He steps closer, looming over Jackson, moving into his space. Jackson huffs out a quiet, submissive whimper, refusing to look up. 

“Okay,” Stiles says nervously, bobbing his head. “Alright, deal.”

Derek stares down at the top of Jackson’s head, unblinking. “You are pack now,” he tells him, commanding. “No more petulance, no more recklessness. You’re with me now. I cleaned up your mess, and I expect you to be obedient. Understood?”

There’s a pause, stretching on for several seconds, and Stiles is momentarily afraid that Jackson is seriously going to start some shit. But then he hears a soft “No” and is able to breathe easier.

“Good,” Derek says, hard expression relaxing somewhat. “That’s good.” He raises a hand, stopping when Jackson flinches, then lowers it to rest on the boy’s shoulder. It’s not exactly a comforting gesture, but it’s _something_. “It won’t be all bad,” he says. “You wait and see.” He withdraws his hand, making to move away, and then a curious look comes into his eyes, brow furrowing. He leans forward again, nostrils flaring. Jackson jerks away instinctively, raising his face with a questioning stare. Derek glances at Stiles, leans in his direction. He sniffs audibly.

Stiles stomach clenches. Oh.

Derek cocks an eyebrow, but the rest of his face is unreadable, not betraying any notion of his feelings. “Have a good time at the lake?” he deadpans, watching Jackson’s cheeks flush red with embarrassment.

“We hung out and didn’t cause trouble,” Stiles offers cryptically. “Just like you told us to.”

“Hmm.” Derek observes him for a few seconds, then grunts and turns away, slamming the front door behind him as he retreats into the house.

A bird chirping from somewhere up above startles Stiles out of his thoughts, and he looks at Jackson, matching his expressionless stare. 

A beam of sunset rays shining through the trees illuminates the shape of Jackson’s mouth; the bemused twist of it. Looking up further, Stiles can see his own doubts reflected in the other boy’s eyes. He can see his own questions, his own insecurities.

Instead of voicing them, he nods meaninglessly and steps across the gravel drive to go to his car at the back of the house.

As he rounds the corner, he can see Jackson still watching him from his place on the stoop.

 

**II.**

The sheriff is waiting at the front door when he steps up to knock.

“Welcome home, buddy.” His father pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, stepping back to fix him with a wide, genuine smile. 

Stiles can’t help but grin back. “Hey, dad. Have a good week?”

“It was quiet without you around,” the sheriff says, leading him into the kitchen where a steaming plate and full glass are waiting. “I never thought I’d say this, but I actually missed your ramblings.”

“Shut up,” Stiles retorts playfully, plopping down in the chair. “You love it when I talk.”

The sheriff rolls his eyes, expression fond. His beeper goes off at his side, and he smacks the button without looking, tightening his belt as he grabs his hat from its perch on the top corner of the liquor cabinet. “I’ve got to go in to work, but I’ve cleared my schedule for the whole day tomorrow. I figured it would be good for you and I to spend some time together. If you don’t have plans?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Free all day. We’ll kick ass, pops.”

His father frowns sternly, but his mouth is twitching. “Hey. Language.” A pause. “And don’t call me pops.”

“Daddy?” Stiles tries faux-innocently. “Padre? Big Man? Dad-inski?”

“Leaving,” the sheriff calls, waving at the front door.

Stiles settles down in his chair to eat. As the police cruiser pulls away down the street, headlights flashing through the window as they pass, he flips open his cell and turns it on. Fifteen missed calls from Scott. Three voicemails. Several more text messages.

Stiles deletes them all, figuring a face-to-face conversation would be better.

Sitting alone in the silence of the house, he’s suddenly struck by how nothing has changed. Whatever revelations he had in the desert, the world kept spinning without his presence. Life went on.

And it’s only been a week. The thought boggles his mind. Just a single week since Chris Argent’s death. Seven days of catharsis after months of stewing in anticipation of all hell breaking loose.

He loses his appetite about halfway through the meal, empties the remains on his plate into the garbage disposal. There’s a dark stain on the living room carpet, residue of crumbs and dirt, and Stiles takes the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet to run over the mess. He ends up going over the entire downstairs area, just to pass the time. Finishing up, he pauses for a moment by the empty ivory frame in the wall collage. When it grows dark outside, he goes upstairs.

His bedroom smells musty, old, and he’s overcome by the terrifying threat of routine. He can’t go back to the way things were, not after everything that’s happened. Even if the only changes end up being the ones inside his own mind, he knows his life can’t be the same. 

He doesn’t want it to be.

 

**III.**

****

His eyes have barely begun to flutter shut, just starting to slip into unconsciousness, when a sharp rapping on the window startles him to alertness.

“What is it with you werewolves and your aversion to doors?” he grumbles, opening the latch to let Jackson in.

“It’s past midnight,” Jackson says, landing deftly on the carpet, sidling back to perch on the edge of the desk. He folds his hands in his lap, fixing Stiles with watchful eyes. “I didn’t want to wake your dad.”

Stiles shivers in the breeze, shuts the glass. “Uh, he’s not even here. Night shift, dude.”

Jackson shrugs, still staring. “Alright, well still. Would you have come to the door if I’d rung the bell?”

“I don’t know.” Stiles scratches the back of his head. “You could have given it a try though, instead of being a creeper like Derek and coming through my window.”

“I knocked,” Jackson retorts.

Stiles waves that off dismissively. “Still a creeper.”

Jackson tilts his head to the side, expression bemused. “Are we seriously going to argue about this?”

Stiles opens his mouth, closes it. After a few seconds, he lets out a quiet little chuckle. “Nah, you’re right. That’s stupid.”

“Damn straight I’m right.” Jackson grins cockily, sliding off the desk. He crowds up into Stiles’ space, smirk fading into something softer, hungry. “I wanted to see you,” he murmurs.

Stiles swallows, breath hitching in his chest as Jackson backs him up into the corner, framing him against the wall with hands on either side of his head. “Well...look away,” he jokes weakly, blinking.

Jackson stares at his mouth, openly and unabashedly. He breathes out through his nose, soft gusts of air tickling Stiles’ cheeks. “Oh, I will,” he says lowly.

They stay like that for a moment, face to face, breathing hard and loud. And Stiles sort of wants to just snap and tell Jackson to hurry the fuck up and kiss him already, but his voice seems to have gotten caught in his throat.

Eventually, Jackson just backs away, letting his hands drop uselessly by his sides. His expression is blanked out, guarded. “I need to know if this is something you want to work at,” he says. “If you were just interested in it being a one time thing, let me know now.”

Stiles shakes his head, willing himself to move, and he reaches up to grab hold of Jackson’s arms, hands curling around his biceps. “No,” he says, chewing on his lip. “No, I want this to be a...thing.”

Jackson makes a quiet, happy sound, his mouth twisting up at one side. He leans forward, pressing his nose into the crook of Stiles’ neck. “Good,” he whispers. “I’m glad.”

He moves Stiles away from the wall, guiding him backwards to fall onto the bed. Stiles lets out a squeak - which he will definitely deny later - and feels his face turning hot. His grip on Jackson’s arms tightens and he rubs his thumbs along the skin there. “Really muscly,” he says nervously. 

Jackson chuckles, hand straying downward to hook under the waistband of Stiles’ pants. “You’ve felt ‘em before,” he drawls lazily, in that obnoxious sort of tone that implies _Yes, I’m very much aware of my sexiness_.

Stiles glares up at him. “I’m just saying. Can’t a guy feel self-conscious for a second?”

“Mmph.” Jackson pulls away, eyebrows knitting in the middle, mouth turned down in a slight frown. “Well sure, but you don’t have any reason to be.” He leans in again, tongue licking a hot trail across Stiles’ jawline. Stiles shudders, all jittery nerves and arousal. “If you knew what you looked like to me, you’d never question yourself again.”

His voice is dark, rough, and this whole damn thing - Jackson fucking Whittemore sneaking into his bedroom at night to ravish him and whispers sweet nothing in his ear - is just so absurd. Stiles can’t handle it. And he can’t help the hysterical little giggle that bubbles up in his chest, escaping in a few quick bursts.. He pats Jackson’s arm reassuringly when the other boy scowls, cheeks flaming red. “That’s sweet and all,” he says, grinning broadly. “I was just thinking that you probably say that to all the girls."

Jackson snorts, confident smirk back in place. “Nah,” he dismisses. “I used different lines for them.”

Stiles opens his mouth to retort, but then Jackson is _licking_ his neck, and his voice just sort of dies. Jackson lowers his body to press flush against Stiles’, breathing heavily somewhere near his ear. And those noises really, truly ought to sound disgusting, but apparently Stiles’ cock did _not_ get that memo. Fucking teenage libido.

When Jackson’s hand starts sliding up under his shirt, Stiles somehow regains his voice and chokes out, “My dad will be home in the morning, you know.”

Jackson pauses, fingers brushing lightly against Stiles’ stomach. He raises an eyebrow, expression thoughtful and contemplating. “He’s not here _now_ ,” he points out.

Stiles shakes his head as best he can, given his limited ability to move at the moment. “I’m serious, Jackson. No sex in my house. Ever. I mean it. I don’t care how hot you are, nothing in the universe is worth the slightest possibility of my dad walking in on us doing the nasty. I would, like, literally shrivel up and die on the spot.”

Jackson’s lip starts to stick out, and Stiles almost laughs in his face - because, seriously, he’s _pouting_ \- but then he just nods and withdraws his hand. “Fine. But I’m still staying the night.”

“What for, to cuddle?” Stiles teases. His eyes widen at Jackson’s shrug. “Really? You want to stay just so you can spoon me? That’s adorable.”

“Don’t be a wiseass,” Jackson grumbles, rolling Stiles over on his side and shifting close behind him, reaching down to pull the bedsheets up around them. “And no. It’s not cuddling.” He pauses, tenses as though he’s embarrassed. “I just need you to smell like me. That’s all."

Stiles leans back into the touch, allowing Jackson’s arms to wrap around him, pulling him close. “I’m going to assume that’s less of a kinky thing than it is an overly territorial werewolf thing. Right?”

Jackson growls, but it’s soft and pleased, and his tongue is fucking at it again, his mouth searingly hot over Stiles’ neck. “Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles has to bite his lip to stop himself from whimpering. “I said no sex, remember?” he says weakly. “It doesn’t matter how good that feels, I’m not giving in.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jackson hums agreeably. “No fucking. Got it. Just wanna mark you up.”

And Stiles can’t really find it in him to object to that.

 

**IV.**

Jackson leaves in the morning, brushing his lips against Stiles’, weirdly tender, then ducking out through the window. No hearing the sound of a car starting, Stiles wonders absently whether or not Jackson walked the whole way over.

His reflection in the bathroom mirror is quite the sight. Light bruises on his hips from Jackson’s forceful grip, mouth red and swollen from the night’s activities. A dark purple hickey painfully obvious on the side of his neck. No way in hell anyone’s going to miss that.

The sheriff certainly doesn’t, and his expression blanks out as his eyes linger on the love mark, his mouth a thin line as he sips his morning coffee. Stiles smiles weakly, silently wanting to die and hoping for salvation. His father doesn’t smile back, but he nods in acknowledgment and pushes a plate of bacon and eggs in his direction. And he doesn’t comment.

As promised, they spend the day together. They go down to the local rec hall by the trucker’s station near the freeway exit, stop in to shoot some pool in the front room, just like old times.

It was a popular hangout spot not too many years ago. Stiles remembers several family outings spent in that place as a child: his father leaning up against the bar with a bottle of beer in his hands, chatting with his friends and colleagues while the youths chalked up the pool cues; his mother playing checkers with him on the porch, sitting in the wicker chairs and glancing in at the game through the screen window.

It’s different now, what with the place being decrepit and rundown now, all a mess with cobwebs in the corner and leaky pipes in the bathroom that groan when the toilet is flushed. And standing around the dusty green table with his father opposite him, Stiles can feel his mother’s absence like a silver dagger twisting inside. Judging by the sheriff’s expression, he’s not alone in that feeling.

A couple of cross-country bikers challenge them to a friendly game, and they accept easily, both wanting to keep their minds occupied with other things.

“Been doing a bit of neckin’, eh boy?” the larger man teases, indicating the bruise on Stiles’ neck.

Stiles turns red, forces a goofy smile, deliberately avoiding his father’s eye. When he chances a look a minute later, the sheriff is concentrating on lining up his shot, expression betraying no hint of worry or internal conflict. Although, admittedly, the man’s always been masterful at concealing his emotions when necessary.

The sheriff is rusty and Stiles was never really good at pool to begin with, but the bikers are worse, and the father-son team wins in the end, and the men buy them drinks as a prize.

“Thanks for the company,” the smaller man says, passing the sheriff a beer, handing a lemonade to Stiles.

“No problem,” the sheriff says, and he grins at Stiles around the lip of the bottle, flashes an affectionate wink.

They order pizza that night and flip through channels on the TV, sprawled out lazily on the couch in the living room. Somewhere around the time that half of the box is empty, they settle on _Miller’s Crossing_.

“Look into your heart!” John Turturro is sobbing, palms raised in desperate plea. “Look into your heart...”

“What heart?” Gabriel Byrne replies, and shoots him through the forehead.

Stiles sets his paper plate to the side, tilting back his cup to pick out a piece of ice to suck on. In the corner of his vision, he can see his father shooting quick glances over at him, his eyes trailing down to stare repeatedly at Stiles’ hickey.

It’s better, he figures in the end, to just bite the bullet on this one.

“So, I’m dating Jackson,” he blurts out once the credits start rolling on the screen. He winces reflexively, twiddling his thumbs in his lap.

He chances a look up, and his stomach tightens up at the stupefied look on his father’s face. “Oh,” the sheriff says. He clears his throat, eyebrows raised to full height. He coughs. “Okay. That’s not what I was expecting.”

Stiles bites his lip, stares down at his lap. It suddenly occurs to him that this actually might be a real issue between them, and he’s not sure if he can deal with that. “Are you mad?” he asks, and his voice is small, insecure like a little kid’s.

His father jolts slightly, startled out of his silent musings. “What? No, no. No.” He reaches out, hesitates, drops his hand on Stiles’ knee. “No, son. I’m not mad. It’s not...” He trails off, sighs. He rubs his forehead, closing his eyes. “It’s not something to be ashamed of, buddy. Don’t be...don’t worry about that. I love you, okay? Nothing’s going to change that.”

There’s a pause after that, and Stiles feels a throbbing in his throat, even as the tightness in his chest starts to loosen. He rubs his eyes angrily; because, really, this doesn’t need to be an emotional moment. “You’re okay with it?” he asks uncertainly.

His father scoots closer, wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Yes, I am.” He chuckles weakly. “It would have been nice to have a little heads up. You know, ‘Hey, Dad. Guess what? I like guys.’ But no big deal.” He reaches up to ruffle Stiles’ hair. “A little surprising, I suppose. But as long as you’re safe and happy, I’m happy for you. That’s all I care about.”

Stiles breathes out a sigh of relief, leaning to press his forehead into his father’s shoulder gratefully. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

“Of course.” His father squeezes his shoulder, patting his arm reassuringly. Then, after a few seconds, “Jackson Whittemore, though? Seriously?”

Stiles looks up with a scowl. “What? He’s hot-” He cuts off, snapping his jaw shut, cheeks tinting pink. “I mean, he’s...He- what’s wrong with him?”

The sheriff looks torn between amusement and mortification. “Oh, nothing,” he shrugs. “I just always had the impression that you two weren’t each other’s favorite people.”

“Yeah, well. Like I already said, we’ve started getting along better.” Stiles sits upright, leaning back against the pillows on the side of the couch.

His father give him a look. “Clearly,” he says drily, smirking at Stiles’ blush. Then, more seriously, “The same rules still apply, by the way. No fooling around under my roof. There are some things a father never needs to know.”

Stiles bobs his head enthusiastically. “I read you. Loud and clear.”

The sheriff gestures pointedly at Stiles’ neck. “Also, if you wouldn’t mind, try keeping _that_ sort of stuff beneath the collar. Again, too much information.”

Stiles stifles a groan, covering his face with his hands. “Got it.”

“If he does anything you don’t like, you tell me.” His father has officially gone into cop mode. “No means no, understand?”

Stiles actually does groan this time. “Jesus, Dad. I get it. I’m still _me,_ okay? You don’t need to, like, protect my virtue or anything.”

“Yes I do,” his father mutters. But he lets the subject drop.

And it’s so much easier than it has any right to be. So much better than it could have been. But Stiles isn’t going to complain.

He’ll take what he can get, whenever good fortune comes along.

 

**V.**

****

“So, I met someone,” he says in opening, picking at his fingernails as he talks.

“Oh?” Brenda replies, voice calm and flat in that infuriatingly neutral manner of hers.

Stiles nods. “Yep.” He hesitates. “He and I go to school together. We’ve known each other for a while.” He bites his lip, trying to gauge her reaction.

She’s totally unfazed. “You were friends?” she asks, adjusting her glasses, peering at him over the rims.

“Not really,” Stiles answers, relaxing. “Not at all, to be honest.” He shifts on the couch, wincing at the squeak of the springs. “That’s kinda the thing. This...whole deal between us - it just started recently. Unexpectedly. It’s not like we’ve been secretly pining for each other for years. It just sort of happened.” He rubs his temples. “I didn’t even _like_ him, like _at all_ , for such a long time. And now, I...I don’t know. It’s really confusing.”

Brenda crosses her legs, hands folded in her lap. She tilts her head to the side, just slightly. “What caused the change, do you think?” she asks. “You didn’t like this boy before, and now you believe that you do. What happened between now and then?”

Stiles opens his mouth, huffs out a mirthless laugh. “A lot,” he says shortly. He runs a hand through his hair. “I guess...one of the major things is that I found out he’s not such a bad guy. He always seemed like a douchebag to me before, and we never got along at school. But circumstances led us to start spending time alone together, and...you know. He’s more complex than I initially thought. He’s not just mean for no reason.”

“Hmm.” Brenda raises an eyebrow, drops it immediately after. Her expression blanks out, but there’s something behind her eyes that gives Stiles pause.

“What?” he asks, frowning. “What is it?”

Brenda hesitates, then shrugs. “Well. It just seems to me as though - and don’t misunderstand what I’m saying here - it seems that this newfound relationship, and the way it came about...”

She trails off, and Stiles leans forward, urging her to continue. “Yes?”

Her mouth draws into a thin line. “You’re a people pleaser,” she explains patiently, firm but not unkind. “This is evident in everything you’ve described to me about your relationships.” She lifts a hand, ticking her points off on her fingers. “You say that your friend Scott - your only friend, as you describe him - has become preoccupied with his girlfriend. That he doesn’t have time for you anymore. And yet you continue to be supportive and listen to his problems.”

“Well, yeah.” Stiles’ frown deepens. “What, am I supposed to just abandon him because he’s kinda being a dick?”

“Your father,” Brenda goes on, ignoring the comment.” You say that he drinks sometimes when the pain of your mother’s death becomes too much to bear.”

“He’s not an alcoholic or anything,” Stiles interrupts hastily. “He just gets drunk _sometimes_. In the house, alone. Never on duty. He’s a good guy.”

“I never said he wasn’t,” she says calmly. “He does drink, though. And you understand why. You serve as a sort of mediator between him and his addiction: you allow him to drink enough to numb the pain, but not enough to seriously hurt himself. In other words, you give him what he wants while keeping a lookout to make sure he doesn’t fall over the edge.”

“That’s not...” Stiles sucks on the inside of his cheek. “It’s not like that.”

“The girl,” Brenda continues. “The one you had a crush on for so many years. Lydia, I think? She felt guilty about not returning your feelings, and instead of allowing yourself to feel the sting of rejection, you took it upon yourself to care more about _her_ feelings. In that moment, it was more important to you to make sure she was okay than to concern yourself with your own emotions.”

Stiles opens and closes his mouth, sitting still on the couch. “Hmm,” is all he can come out with.

Brenda leans forward, and her smile is gentle, understanding. “I could go on, but I think you see my point. You are a people pleaser. You’ve dedicated yourself to making other people happy.” She shrugs. “Understand, that’s not a criticism. It actually speaks very highly of your character, I believe, that you are so considerate, so empathetic.” She uncrosses her legs, leaning back. “But that type of personality can lend itself to self-destructive tendencies. The mindset of always seeing the best in others, of always looking out for others’ interests...that can sometimes lead you to bypass critical thinking. It can take you to dangerous places.”

The clock on the wall is ticking loudly, driving its tempo into Stiles’ skull. He starts tapping his leg. “What are you getting at? he asks. “Specifically, I mean.”

Brenda twiddles her thumbs, observing him carefully. “I don’t know this boy,” she says. “The one you’re dating. I’m in no position to make a judgment call. However, as your psychiatrist, I would advise you to be...cautious. Especially given your description of the kid.”

Stiles rubs his knees, patting them down, shifting with nervous energy. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“Just be careful,” she replies. “Don’t allow yourself to be taken advantage of.”

They move on to discuss other topics after that, but Stiles’ mind lingers on those words.

 

**VI.**

Derek comes to see him later in the week, meeting him on the nature trail leading through the woods to the highway.

“I’d have thought you would have been turned off this place,” he says in greeting, looking around at the canopy of foliage. “After everything that’s happened. But maybe I overestimated you.”

Stiles glances up at him, looks back at his shoes. He kicks up a flurry of leaves, continuing to walk along the dirt path. “Did you just feel like insulting me, or do you actually have something to say?”

Derek opens his mouth to retort, but snaps it shut, restraining himself. “Sorry,” he grumbles apologetically, sullenly. “I’m just in a mood.”

“In a mood?” Stiles stares at him, incredulous. “Dude, you’re like this _all the time_.” Derek scowls, but doesn’t respond, keeping up pace and walking alongside him. Stiles sighs. “Okay, whatever. What’s up?”

Derek grimaces, like he’s swallowed something distasteful, and he scratches the back of his head irritably. “I just wanted to let you know that...” - his eye twitches - “...that I approve.” A pause. “Of you. Of Jackson’s choice. It’s a good one.”

Stiles blinks, glances around. “Uh. What are we talking about?”

“You. And Jackson. And the fact that he’s chosen you for a mate.” Derek tilts his head to the side, expression as blank and closed off as ever. “I’m saying that I approve.”

Stiles falters, surprised. “Oh.” He swallows, frowning uncertainly. “Thanks?”

Derek stares, eyes blue and penetrating. He drops his gaze, breathes out a quiet sigh. “You’ll be good for him,” he says, and he actually sounds like he means it. “Keep him balanced, focused. He needs that, and he sure isn’t going to listen to me. Not without you there.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says again, softer, more sure-footed. “That’s...I’m glad you approve.”

“You’re pack now,” Derek says simply. “You’ll keep Jackson grounded, and maybe, eventually, you can get Scott to come back to the fold.”

Stiles makes a doubtful noise. “I don’t know about that. He’s seemed pretty sure about wanting to stay out of everything. He doesn’t want to piss of Allison’s par-” He cuts off, swallows. “Her mother,” he finishes lamely. “Doesn’t want to piss of her mother.”

Derek looks tired now, the same sort of weary demeanor he’d had the day Jackson and Stiles returned from the lake. “Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” He lifts his gaze, studying Stiles thoughtfully. The sound of his breathing is ragged, loud even with the summer wind rustling the leaves in the treetops. “I don’t blame you, you know,” he says, and there’s no need to clarify what he’s referring to. “I know it was an accident. Self defense.”

“It still shouldn’t have happened,” Stiles says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It could have been avoided.”

Derek hums in agreement. “What’s done is done,” he says gruffly. “You can’t change the past. You can only learn from it.”

Stiles kicks a pebble on the trail, wincing as his toe catches on a root sticking up from the earth. “Can you, though?” he mumbles, almost too quiet for anyone to hear.

Not too quiet for Derek. “Yes,” he says, turning to Stiles with a slight frown, silently puzzled. “Of course you can.” He straightens his jacket, tilting his head back to blink up at the afternoon sky through the branches. A squirrel leaps from one tree to another up above. “I had to learn the hard way, but I _did_ learn.”

“What did you learn?” Stiles asks, questioning in a moment of boldness, pushing past his fear of the werwolf’s violent tendencies.

Derek glances at him, and Stiles doesn’t really expect him to respond, but then he says, “I learned not to assume things are a certain way just because I want them to be. Kate Argent taught me that.” His mouth quirks up at the side in a humorless smile. “Indirectly, of course.” He gets a distant look in his eyes, gazing off into a faraway place, mind returning to a time Stiles cannot reach with him. Shaking himself out of it, he continues, “I convinced myself that she loved me. I was so sure of it. Instead of actually _looking_ at what was right in front of me, I chose to stick with my fantasy of who she was.” He bites his lip, and Stiles is genuinely shaken by the emotion behind his eyes. “I wanted so badly for her to be what I needed, so I pretended she was instead of seeing her for what she really was. And I paid the price for it.” His expression hardens. “It won’t happen again.”

Stiles shivers at the coldness in his demeanor. He licks his lips, smoothing out the dry skin. “It wasn’t you, was it?” he asks. “The man on the news. The guy who got torn to shreds. It wasn’t you who did it. Was it?”

And that’s not what he meant to say. He’s not sure where exactly that thought came from, not sure why it sprung unbidden to the tip of his tongue.

Except that’s not true.

Because he _does_ know. And judging by the look on Derek’s face - calm, almost sympathetic - _he_ knows, too.

“No,” Derek says tonelessly. “It wasn’t me.”

Stiles nods, dropping his eyes to stare at the ground. “Must have been a wild animal then,” he says, blinking hard. “Just like everybody said.”

There’s a long pause, and the silence stretches, and then Derek’s hand is on his shoulder, patting him gently before pulling away. “Yeah, maybe,” Derek says.

And when Stiles looks up, he’s gone.

The woods seem darker now, colder. And Stiles brushes his eyes furiously before turning back to head into town. He wants to be home.

 

**VII.**

“I mean it, dude, I’m the worst. Seriously, I’m sorry.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, leaning back in his swivel chair. He turns up the lighting on the computer screen, staring at Scott’s apologetic face over the online connection. “It’s okay, man. No harm done, I get it.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s alright,” Scott says stubbornly. “I’ve been a shitty friend. I don’t want us to stop being close just because I’ve been distracted this past year.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Stiles turns expectantly. His father pokes his head in, mouths that he’s going to bed. Stiles nods goodnight. He turns back to the screen, smiling at Scott’s anxious expression. “You really haven’t been that bad,” he says. “I mean it. So you’ve been a little distant. Whatever. It’s your first girlfriend. I _get_ it, okay. I promise I’m not hurt.”

Scott scratches his head. “You ignored my calls this past week, though. My messages, too.”

“It was the lake, buddy.” Stiles grabs a bouncy ball out of his desk and starts tossing it up into the air, catching it absently, rolling it around in his palm. “The reception was terrible. It wasn’t like I was ignoring you. We’re totally cool, okay? Amigos forever.”

Scott still looks doubtful, but he seems to relax somewhat. “Yeah okay. Good. It’s just been weird recently,” he sighs. “What with Mr. Argent gone missing and everything. Allison’s a wreck.”

Stiles’ smile fades, and he marshals his expression into polite interest. “Yeah, I heard about that. Have you heard anything new?”

“Well, obviously you-know-who was a suspect at first,” Scott says, eyebrows raised meaningfully. When Stiles just stares blankly, he clarifies, “Derek. Because of the whole...” - he lowers his voice - “...werewolf thing.”

“Uh huh.” Stiles tosses the ball high. It bounces off the ceiling and comes smacking down on the edge of the desk, ricocheting off to roll across the floor and under the bed. “And? Was it?”

“Apparently not. Allison’s mom was really sure of it for a couple of days. Then she actually seemed suspicious of _me_! Can you believe that?”

Stiles leans on his elbow, staring down at the floor. “Sort of,” he mumbles. At Scott’s indignant squawk, he amends, “I mean, I understand why _she_ would think that. Being a psycho werewolf hunter and all. It’s, like, in their nature to suspect you guys, isn’t it?”

Scott huffs frustratedly. “I guess.” He rubs his eyes tiredly. “I don’t know, man. It’s just a weird situation. They haven’t found a body or anything, like the did when Derek’s crazy uncle was running wild. So maybe he didn’t get killed. Maybe he just...you know. Left.”

Stiles forces his face to rearrange into a thoughtful look, like he’s actually considering the possibility. “Maybe. It could have nothing to do with the werewolf stuff.”

“Mmph. Knowing our luck, I kinda doubt that.” Scott’s mouth twists into a wry grin. He flashes a peace sign. “I’ve gotta go, but we really need to hang out soon. It’s been too long. Let’s get this friendship up and running again, yeah?”

Stiles smiles. “Sounds good. Later.”

He flicks off the screen and leans back in his chair. The ceiling fan whirs above him like the rotor of a helicopter, wooden blades humming by in constant circular motion.

His phone buzzes, and he looks down to read the text:

_Date tomorrow?_

He taps back his reply:

_You bet._

 

**VIII.**

****

He sees Allison and her mother at the supermarket, standing in line with a bag of ice and a gallon of milk.

Mrs. Argent doesn’t pay him much mind. She gives him a look, just a lingering stare of wordless recognition, then turns away to stare at the conveyer belt as another customer’s items drift by. The beeping of the scanner cuts through the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

Allison’s gaze sticks longer. She looks exhausted, like she hasn’t slept for days, dark circles under eyes and hair sticking out at odd angles, unkempt. Looking at her, Stiles feels a pang of guilt, and he has to physically steel himself, will himself to be strong so nothing shows on his face. He forces himself to smile at her, trying to be natural but not overly cheery, understanding without being pitying.

She doesn’t smile back, but she nods in acknowledgment, and a curious light comes into her eyes, a nameless thing behind her gaze that gives Stiles the willies.

She doesn’t know, he tells himself. There’s no possible way she could.

Although, to be fair, he doesn’t know that to a certainty. He still doesn’t know how Derek handled the situation. He doesn’t know much of anything.

His heart rate starts to pick up pace, and he feels his smile starting to slide out of place, but then Allison looks away and grabs a pack of gum off the nearby rack and sets it next to her bag of ice. And Stiles is able to breathe once more.

He moves around them quickly and checks out in a different aisle.

 

**IX.**

“Fucking love you like this,” Jackson murmurs breathlessly, eyes wide and glowing, pupils dilated. He presses Stiles down into the upholstery of the Porsche’s backseat, running his hands up underneath the boy’s shirt, popping the buttons open one by one. “Love the sounds you make.”

Stiles whimpers, screwing his eyes shut as Jackson’s hand palms the front of his jeans, teasing him. “Do it or don’t,” he groans, panting. “Don’t make me wait.”

Jackson grins, white-toothed and feral, and he nips playfully at Stiles’ neck, trailing kisses up to his cheek. “What if I want to hear you beg?” he asks, licking at Stiles’ mouth, rocking his hips forward.

“Are you seriously just quoting lines from your favorite pornos now?” Stiles grumbles, but he leans into the touch, shuddering.

The windows of the car are fogged up, gathering moisture. The key is still stuck in the ignition, air conditioner cooling them down as the radio plays soft and low up front.

The seats don’t push back that far, and they can’t quite get a good angle. It’s quick and messy, and it’s over not too long after it’s started. Jackson works at the button on the waistband of his jeans, arching his back to pull his pants up higher. “Good for you?” he asks, going for casual but betraying the need for affirmation in the slight waver on the last syllable.

“Good enough,” Stiles teases, prodding him with his toe, lazing up against the window, doodling on the wet glass with his index finger.

Jackson kicks him playfully. “Dick,” he mutters, smiling to himself.

Stiles yawns sleepily, stretches his arms. “Not to be crass or anything, but if that’s your idea of a date, we’re going to need to start alternating positions, dude. My dad’s probably going to lose his shit if I’m limping around the house every week.”

Jackson snorts, pulling his shirt over his head. Smile faltering, he looks at Stiles seriously. “You know, if you want to go on real dates, I’d be happy to take you.”

Dropping his hand away from the window, Stiles looks at him, arches an eyebrow. “Really?” he asks, surprised. “I just sort of figured you wouldn’t want everybody to know about...” - he gestures between them - “...you know. Us. I assumed you’d want to keep it secret."

“Why would you assume that?” Jackson queries, forehead crinkled in a slight frown. Then, hesitantly, “Do... _you_ want to keep it secret?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t really care. I already told my dad, since he was already suspicious of us going on ‘vacation’ together. And he saw that hickey you left on my neck the other night. So he was probably going to figure it out anyway.” He reaches down underneath the seat to grab his sandals, slipping them onto his feet and stretching his legs to lie beside Jackson’s. “But yeah. I don’t mind people knowing. But I thought you would mind.”

Jackson’s frown deepens, and he almost looks angry. “Why would you think that?”

“Woah.” Stiles raises his palms placatingly. “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just...”

He trails off, and Jackson looks down at the floor, silently fuming. “Danny is my best friend, remember? You know I don’t have a problem with the gay thing.”

“I know,” Stiles says, reaching over to pat Jackson’s leg, to reassure. “I know that.”

Jackson pulls away, irritated. “If this is going to work, you’re going to start thinking better of me,” he mutters. “I get that I was an ass to you sometimes, but that doesn’t make me a bad guy. I have no issue with people knowing.”

Stiles listens quietly, nods. “Okay,” he says softly. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Jackson nods jerkily, but his expression softens, and he allows Stiles to rest his hand on his leg after that. By the time they’re driving back to Stiles’ house after midnight with the radio blaring and the windows rolled down, he’s back to his old self. Grinning like a madman.

 

**X.**

It’s a calculated move and Stiles knows it, but he can’t think of a better, simpler way to go about the thing.

He starts hanging out with Derek, alone and of his own volition. It only takes a few instances of blowing Jackson off for the other boy to get jealous and decide to tag along. After that, it’s all too easy to get him to fall in line. Derek has that sort of effect on people.

Maybe it’s a gesture to please Stiles, or maybe he sincerely recognizes the value of pack now, but whatever the reason, Jackson rolls over easy. Much easier than anticipated. When Derek growls, he submits. When given instruction, he obeys. And Derek’s fair, with both of them, and he understands the necessity of showing appreciation for good efforts.

Scott’s still an outlier, and Stiles still isn’t certain that he’ll be easily convinced to join. But he’s feeling more optimistic every day. 

It’s a pack of three. Two werewolves and a human. They can only go uphill from here.

 

**XI.**

“I’d like to be more assertive,” Stiles says, and the full weight of how true that is only hits him as the words come out of his mouth. He nods, mulling it over. “Yeah. I think I need to be.”

“Is that a decision you’ve arrived at on your own?” Brenda asks, making a quick note on her clipboard before setting it aside. “Or have you been thinking about this because of what I said during our last session.” She folds her hands in her lap and studies him over the top of her glasses in that weird manner of hers that falls somewhere between Stern Librarian and Concerned Adult Friend. But it’s sincere, so Stiles doesn’t really mind that much. “Don’t misunderstand, I think it’s great you want to make positive changes in your life. I just don’t want you to feel pressured into something you aren’t ready for. It’s vital that this decision comes from _you_ , not me. Not anyone else.”

Stiles shakes his head, scraping a speck of dirt out from underneath his fingernails. “No, this is all me. I’ll admit that maybe I got to thinking more about it because of the last time we talked, but still. You were right, and I know that. I knew it as soon as you said it. And this is something I want for myself. I don’t want to be complacent.”

Brenda hums interestedly, a small smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “Well, I think that’s great. Good for you.” She takes off her glasses, rubs at the indentions on the side of her nose. “So how goes everything with the boyfriend? Young love still going strong?”

“Everything seems good,” Stiles replies, smiling. “I was a little nervous at first, coming back from our trip. I wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be a fling, and we never really discussed labels. But it looks like he’s going to stick it out with me. At least until I annoy him to death and he dumps my ass.” Brenda huffs a soft laugh, and Stiles grins self-deprecatingly. “But seriously. I’m feeling pretty optimistic, which is new for me. I think I’m actually happy.”

“That’s great to hear,” she says, cracking her knuckles. “Between you and me, it’s always a relief to hear that from a patient. It’s good to feel like I’m actually accomplishing something every now and then.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow, mouth twisting up at the side. “You don’t feel that way very often?” he inquires.

She chuckles. “I’m not complaining. It comes with the nature of the job. I’d be out of work if every young person in America was happy all the time.” Her smile falters slightly, dampening into polite calm. “But still. It can be disheartening to come in to work day after day and never see any visible progress.” There’s a pause, and she shakes herself off, coming out of her reverie. “Sorry,” she says, smiling apologetically. “My mind sort of wandered off there.”

Stiles shakes his head, expression serious. “No, that’s okay,” he says honestly, tone thoughtful. He rubs his hands together, thinking. “You really don’t see much change?” he asks curiously.

Brenda drums her fingernails on the armrest of her chair. “To put it in no uncertain terms,” she says slowly, carefully, “my experience has led me to accept that while change is always possible, it’s almost never probable. And the people who _do_ somehow manage to change only stay changed long enough to realize that they were more content with themselves the way they were before. And then they tend to change back.” She shrugs. “People are who they are, for better or worse. When I first started out in this line of work, I was more idealistic about the human capacity for self-improvement. Now...I guess I see this job as more of a temporary fix. I do what I can to help, but with the unfortunate awareness that people are going to go ahead and do what they’re going to do. Regardless of what I say.”

Stiles blinks, still rubbing his palms together in soft, circular motions. “That’s sort of depressing,” he says, trying for a lighthearted tone.

She laughs lightly. “What are ya gonna do, right?” she says.

The clock chimes and the sound of the electronic nightingale call reverberates in the small space of the room. Stiles and Brenda stand together, and Stiles hands her the check for the hour, nodding goodbye.

He stops at the door, hand frozen on the doorframe. Looking back, he sucks on his lower lip, eyebrows knitting together. “Ever get so bad with any patients that you had to give up them?” He asks. Seeing her surprised reaction, he adds, “Just curious.”

She shrugs. “I’ve never given up on someone. That’s not something you need to worry about.” She turns her back to him, picking up her clipboard and retreating behind the desk. “I’ve had to transfer one or two to other doctors, patients who needed care I couldn’t provide. One with serious psychosomatic symptoms, another with borderline personality disorder. Severe stuff.” She looks up at him, smiles. “I won’t give up on you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He smiles back, shakes his head. “No, I really was just curious.” 

He waves farewell, shuts the door. It clicks as it closes, and the sound echoes in the hallway outside.

 

**XII.**

“She says it’s nothing to worry about, but I can tell something’s wrong.”

Stiles tilts his head, pinning the phone between his ear and shoulder as he peruses music on his laptop. “She’s probably just upset about her father, dude. Something like that sticks with a person for a long time. You’ve got to give her space.”

“That’s not it,” Scott insists, voice crackly over the reception. Stiles adjusts the position of the cell. “I thought it was, too, at first. But it isn’t. I can tell.”

Stiles huffs doubtfully. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because we’ve talked about that already. And she’s really open about discussing that stuff.” There’s a pause, and then he adds, “Also, I can smell it on her,” like _that’s_ supposed to make any sort of sense.

Stiles rubs his eye wearily, reaching down to the mousepad to flick down through his song listings. “Okay then. So what do _you_ think it is?”

Scott sighs frustratedly. “I don’t _know_. That’s why I called.”

“Uh, well. Sorry, buddy, but I don’t have any better ideas.” Stiles pulls the phone away from his ear, looks at it. “Look, I’ve got to get up early tomorrow, so...”

“Yeah, okay.” He hears Scott yawn on the other end of the line. “It’s getting late. I’ll let you go. Talk to you soon.”

“For sure.”

Stiles severs the connection with a quiet beep, tosses the phone onto the end of the bedspread. He leans back against his pillows, computer warming his pants from its perch on his lap. He raps his fingernails on the keyboard pointlessly, whistling a tuneless melody.

It’s dark outside the window, impossible to see past the dark silhouette of the trees down the block. He can see the wind battering leaves against the glass, silent and swift.

Looking back to the laptop, he chews on his lower lip, thinking. His finger spring into action without any clear purpose.

He clicks on the google icon at the top of the screen and types out his query into the search bar: borderline personality disorder.

A whole plethora of results pops up immediately, and he scans through absently, not looking for anything in particular. He clicks on a link to a medical journal, a listing of symptoms and diagnostic determinants.

The words leap out from the screen: 

_A condition in which people have long-term patterns of unstable or turbulent emotions, such as feelings about themselves and others. These inner experiences often cause them to take impulsive actions and have chaotic relationships._

__

He scans further down the page:

_Risk factors include abandonment in childhood or adolescence, disrupted family life, etc._

Outside the door, he can hear the muffled sounds of his father shuffling around downstairs, getting ready for bed. The hall light flicks off and the beam shining beneath the crack of the door dims to darkness.

He scrolls down:

_Symptoms include fear of being abandoned, feelings of emptiness and boredom, frequent displays of inappropriate anger, impulsiveness with money/substance abuse/sexual relationships, intolerance of being alone, etc. People with BPD also tend to see things in terms of extremes, such as either all good or all bad. Their views of other people may change quickly. A person who is looked up to one day may be looked down on the next day. These suddenly shifting feelings often lead to intense and unstable relationships._

Stiles shifts on the bed, sitting upright. Determined to ignore the sudden ringing in his ears, he closes the laptop and sets it under the bed. Reaching over, he flicks off the lamp and lies down in the dark, curling up under the covers. He shuts his eyes against the memory of Jackson lying drunk beside him in the bedroom in the cabin. _Don't leave me_ , he'd whispered. Stiles bites his lip.

He doesn’t fall asleep for at least another hour.

 

**XIII.**

****

The sheriff’s schedule is clear that Friday night, and they invite Jackson to family dinner.

It’s shouldn’t be a big deal. The relationship has already gotten the father’s seal of approval, and it’s not as though the sheriff’s never met Jackson before. But nevertheless, Stiles busies himself in the hours leading up to the meal, bustling about the house, dusting and cleaning and checking the oven every five minutes to make sure the roast is cooking right. He dresses up nice - nice for his standards, anyway - and he paces downstairs with nervous energy, checking the clock repeatedly.

There are muffled noises coming from under the door to his father’s room. Talking, it sounds like. Stiles steps quietly down the hall and presses his ear against the door. He winces when it creaks open, and he reaches out to still its movement, but his father doesn’t seem to notice.

The sheriff is sitting on the edge of the bed with his back turned to Stiles, staring down at something in his lap that’s just out of view. His shoulders are slumped, trembling almost imperceptibly. He’s whispering to himself.

Or perhaps not to himself.

“He’s a good boy,” he’s saying, voice wavering ever so slightly. “You’d be so proud of him, to see what he’s become. I wish you could be here tonight.”

Stiles swallows hard, stepping back as quietly as he can, leaving the door where it is. He moves out of sight, pressing his back to the wall, listening with his heart in his throat.

“I think I have to let go,” his father goes on, soft voice echoing in the enclosed space. “I have to, for him. I have to learn to be father again. I know that’s what you would want.” There’s a muffled sound, a choked sob, and Stiles has to physically restrain himself from rushing in to comfort. “I love you, darling. My angel. Goodbye. Goodbye...”

Stiles brushes at his eyes with his sleep, scooting down along the wall and into the living room. He goes into the bathroom to compose himself, blinking away the wetness and gripping the edges of the sink for support.

When the doorbell rings shortly after, Stiles and his father meet in the foyer, all calm and collected, clean faces. No indication that the previous few minutes ever happened.

The sheriff opens the door and smiles politely. “Jackson,” he says warmly, extending his hand. “Please come in.”

 

**XIV.**

****

After the dinner, after they’ve said their goodbyes and after Jackson’s left and the sheriff’s retired to his bedroom, Stiles finds himself alone in the kitchen to tidy up.

He scrubs at the dishes and places them back in the cabinet, squeaky clean. He yawns and undoes the button at the top of his collar, mounting the staircase to ascend to his room. He pauses on the third step, gazing across the living room at the collage of photographs on the wall outside the master bedroom.

The picture of his mother, slightly crinkled and faded, is back in its place in the ivory frame. The light of the moon from the kitchen window beams down and illuminates her smile.

She’s a fucking knockout.

 

**XV.**

He sees Allison again. Alone this time, without her mother present.

She doesn’t see him, but she’s standing in front of him in line at the pharmacy, fishing her wallet out of her purse. Her hair is combed, and she seems more collected than before, but the tiredness in her eyes is still present. It’s less frazzled now, more resigned. Wearily accepting.

Stiles’ gaze lingers on the little white bag clutched in her hand as she exits the store, watches it disappear as the door swings shut with an electric beep.

Out in the parking lot, he sits in his Jeep for a few minutes before pulling away. He sets his keys on the dashboard and stares out the front window, lost in contemplation.

He remembers that Scott’s father is gone, too. And the thought _No grandfathers_ enters his head.

And that sets it off. He allows himself that one moment of despair, lets it all crash down over him, take hold of his body. And he slams his fists into the steering wheel, ignoring the sound of the horn blaring over and over, just punching everything in sight until his knuckles turn bloody and his chest is heaving with tearless sobs. 

And then, like the flicking of a switch, it’s gone. And he’s all drained out. He takes a deep, steadying breath and grabs the keys off the dash, pausing to lick the drops of red off the back of his right hand.

Then he turns the key in the ignition and starts to whistle along to his tunes as he pulls the car into reverse and backs out of his space.

 

**XVI.**

It’s the Fourth of July, and the kids from school have arranged a massive blowout party on the lawn of the field overlooking the west side of the woods, just off the road from the diner and the Motel 6.

There are kids gathered ‘round in circles on the grass, splayed out together on beach towels and laughing with their plastic cups of cheap beer and packs of cigarettes lying close by. The kegs of booze are out in the open in the center of the field, blatant, set up on tables stolen from the teacher’s lounge. People are all lined up for refills.

It’s a youth affair, kept secret from the adults of the town. Jackson invited Derek to join, but he turned him down flat. “Not me,” he said bluntly.

Stiles is standing awkwardly off to the side with Scott, nursing his cup like it’s poison, not particularly in the mood to get drunk.

“I was thinking we could go on a road trip together,” Scott says, crumpling up a can of soda and tossing it at a black garbage bag lying nearby. He misses. “Next summer, when we can maybe get enough money to pay for it all ourselves. You’d have to convince your dad, but he’s generally pretty reasonable.”

“That would be fun,” Stiles agrees absently, watching as some of the popular kids start heaving the wheelbarrow full of fireworks down away from the crowd, getting ready to set up on the hilltop.

“Some quality you-and-me time, right?” Scott says, nudging him with a grin. Stiles punches his arm playfully, mouth curling up.

Lydia peels away from her gang of friends, flouncing over with a smug smile. “Hey there, boys,” she croons, waggling her fingers in greeting. She nods at Stiles’ half-empty cup. “Need some more there?”

Stiles shakes his head, lifting it so she can see. “Still working on this one, thanks.”

She rolls her eyes, still smiling. “Lightweight,” she dismisses teasingly. She raises an eyebrow at Scott. “What about you?”

“No thanks,” Scott says, pointing at the soda can glimmering in the grass. “I’m playing designated driver tonight.”

“Buzz-kills.” She turns back to Stiles, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “So Stilinski, I was thinking about catching a movie next weekend since they’re opening that new theater downtown. Jackson’s already agreed to come, and Allison said maybe. You in?”

Stiles blinks, surprised. “Uh, yeah. Sure, why not. What movie?”

She shrugs in response, already starting to walk away to greet more of her friends. “Not sure yet. I’ll text you the details.” Noting his expression, she smiles knowingly. “I meant it when I said I wanted to be friends, dude.”

She turns and leaves, flaming hair bouncing behind her in long, twisted strands. Scott looks at Stiles, eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline. “When did _that_ happen?” he asks, elbowing Stiles in the ribs. 

Stiles scoffs, blushing in spite of himself. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” he mutters lowly. “We really are just friends. That other ship has sailed.”

Scott makes an indignant noise. “Since when? Dude! Clue me in.”

Allison walks over before Stiles can reply, hooking her arm into Scott’s and smiling up at him. “Hey,” she says softly.

Scott presses a kiss to her forehead. “Hey yourself,” he says, wrapping an arm around her waist.

She turns to Stiles, smiles politely. “Hey, Stiles.”

He nods. “Hi, Allison.”

There’s a burst of laughter from down the way, and they turn together to watch as an upperclassman falls out of his lawn chair, asleep and drooling. His friends are holding their sides, pointing and snickering.

“Everybody having a good time?” Jackson’s voice cuts in, and Stiles turns to smile as the other boy moves up into his space, hooking an arm around his waist and giving him a quick hug.

Stiles doesn’t miss the way Scott’s eyes dart down to stare at the placement of Jackson’s hand, and he chews on his lip, grinning apologetically. Allison leans up to whisper something in Scott’s ear and he nods distractedly. “Yeah, okay,” he murmurs to her. Then louder, “Yeah, great party, dude.” He starts backing away with Allison, heading off away from the crowd. “Be right back, guys.” His eyes glance between Stiles and Jackson, and he gives Stiles a pointed look that reads _This conversation is not over_.

Stiles nods sheepishly, turning his attention on Jackson as Scott and Allison descend the slope. “Hey, you,” he murmurs softly.

Jackson grins. “So, having a good time?”

“Most definitely.” Stiles lifts one leg to scratch the back of the other, eyes darting down to the ground and back. Up and down.

Jackson tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “You okay? You seem...I dunno. A little off.”

Stiles forces a smile, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of Jackson’s jeans. “Nah,” he says. “It’s nothing.”

Jackson nods, staring at Stiles’ mouth. “Good,” he murmurs, then kisses him.

It’s soft and slow, and it’s not put on for show. When they pull apart, Stiles can see a few  nearby party-goers watching, some mildly surprised, others flat out shocked. A few disgusted, some amused or even riveted. For the most part, though, no one pays any mind.

Danny pushes his way through a tight press of people, walking up and clapping Jackson on the shoulder. “We’re out of beer, man,” he says, nodding at Stiles in acknowledgment. “Cody said you brought another keg?”

Jackson nods, hand still attached to Stiles’ hip. “Yeah, I hid it down at the edge of the woods in case the cops showed up. Didn’t want it in my car.” He drops his hand from Stiles’ side, fishing in his pocket for his keys. “Give me a sec.”

“I’ll do it,” Stiles interrupts, holding out his hand. He smiles lopsidedly. “You guys talk. I’ll go pick it up.”

Jackson and Danny glance at each other. Danny shrugs. Jackson hands the keys over. “Sure, okay. It’s just down there,” - he  points - “right by that big oak sticking out at the bottom of the slope.”

His fingers linger against Stiles’ for a few moments, and they look at each other, sharing a private smile. Then he pulls away, wrapping an arm around Danny’s shoulder and heading off to help the older boys with the fireworks.

Stiles walks across the field to the array of cars, clicking the unlock button. He hears the loud beep of Jackson’s Porsche and follows the blinking of yellow lights.

Walking down row in the makeshift parking lot, he hears the sound of a girl’s voice and turns to see Allison and Scott standing nearby. They don’t notice him.

“What is it?” Scott asks, looking down at her, concerned and gentle.

“Just give me a moment,” she says, staring at her feet. “It’s...this is going to change everything...”

This is a private moment, just for them, and Stiles doesn’t feel right intruding. He keeps walking, drowning out the sound of their voices. He reaches the Porsche and steps inside, sighing as he reclines in the cushioned seat.

The car drives smooth and steady, even on the rough terrain of the field, and he pulls to a halt at the edge of the woods, just beneath the shadow of the trees. The night sky is alive with stars overhead, and the muffled sounds of laughter and chatter resound from behind. He can see the tiny lights of cellphones and lanterns over in the field where the kids are gathered together.

The keg is right where Jackson said it would be, leaning against the trunk of the old oak. Stiles reaches down to grab it, to lift it into the trunk.

The wind picks up as his fingers touch the metal, and the leaves rustle loudly above him. He hears the cracking of a branch.

Then another, and this one is from down below, from nearby on the forest floor. Stiles pauses, letting go of the keg and standing up. The car’s engine rumbles behind him and the door ajar alarm is beeping quietly in metronomic tempo.

He squints, gazing off into the darkness of the woods. “Hello?” he calls. No answer.

Looking down, he sees something on the trunk of the tree. A splash of something. He bends over, blinks at it.

It looks like dark liquid. Oil, maybe. Or tar.

He straightens, folding his arms across his chest, biting his lip and turning back to look past the trees. He thinks he hears another snap of a twig, but it might just be his imagination. "Hello?" he calls again. "Is there anybody out there?"

He jolts, startled, as the car radio flicks on, loud and echoing out from the open door of the driver’s side. The song crackles, reception sketchy:

_Thrown like a star in my vast sleep_

_I open my eyes to take a peep_

_To find that I was by the sea_

_Gazing with tranquility_

_It was then when the Hurdy Gurdy Man_

_Came singing songs of love...._

__

There is a raucous boom, and the vast expanse of blackness overhead comes alive with color. Stiles turns back to the field, craning his neck as streaks of light shoot up into the sky and explode into firework patterns, dazzling red and blue in the night air. The earth reverberates with the vibrations. The cheers of the kids in the field blend together in one voice, their bellows and applause morphing into a dull roar.

It thunders in the deep, and combined with the ringing in Stiles’ ears, it becomes higher and higher pitched with every passing second. It turns into a shriek.

A screaming that splits the sky.

And all of the children under the stars start singing “America the Beautiful.” Verse one, verse two, chorus shouted with great cheer.

Verse three!

All together now -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END.
> 
> (To anyone who has questions/confusions about the ending, I would recommend reading my response to lannisnow's comment on Chapter 4. That might help make some of the more obscure things more clear. If you still have questions, I'd be happy to answer them.)


End file.
